Come Home
by rewrittengirl
Summary: When John is sent back to the war, Sherlock can't cope, especially since his new feelings for John have overpowered him. Video chats aren't enough, but when the doorbell rings, Sherlock melts down in seconds. Can an unasked question make him whole again?
1. Leaving

**Title: **Come Home

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (or rather Leffie)

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 4,118 words.

**Rating:** T for teen.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes, DI Lestrade, maybe Anderson later.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock

**Warning(s):** Too much angst for some to handle, heartbreak, death, sadness, despair, clinically insane... ness.

**Contains: **Sadness, depression, angst, goodbyes, heartbreak, HAPPYTIEMS! 8DDD ... No, not really. Well, maybe a little. Oh, and Sherlock realizing his feelings for John. That's good! 8D

**Notes: **So this is my new and very sad fanfiction. This is the longest chapter I've ever written, so I'm pretty proud of it. This fic will be relatively short, number of chapters-wise, due to how I have it planned out. It won't be as epic in scale as Written in the Stars, though the content might be a bit more epic. And more angsty. This is THE OPPOSITE of Written. Just to warn you. This is also told in Sherlock's first person POV, so tell me how I do! ^^ Enjoy (crying that is, maybe this chapter, maybe not). This type of story has probably been done to pieces, but I wanted to write my own version.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **When John is redeployed to Afghanistan, Sherlock can barely cope, especially since his newfound feelings for John have overpowered him. Video chats and phonecalls aren't enough, but when the doorbell rings, Sherlock's world melts down in seconds. Can an unasked question mend him, and can he ever be whole again?

* * *

><p>He told me on a Tuesday.<p>

"Sherlock?" he said weakly.

I paid no attention. John must have been in one of those moods where he sees fit to try and con me. "Not now, John, I'm working."

I _was _working. I was trying to come up with a cure for diabetes. Simple stuff, really. Not that I liked to have my attention diverted for even a second.

But then a glance up told me John was genuinely worried. About what I deduced from the slip of paper he clutched in his trembling hand. I also deduced the contents of the letter by noticing the emblem in the left corner. It was the symbol of Her Majesty's Army.

I felt myself sit up and give him my full audience. "Oh my God."

I'm sure there was some sort of disbelief gracing my features. Sadness also. Anger, yes. And then some.

John opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

"No."

"No?"

"Yes, no. I will not have it."

My companion huffed, and gave out a dry, cynical laugh. "I doubt you'd have much say in the matter, Sherlock. I have orders."

"Damn your orders. Mycroft will see to it that they are destroyed, I assure you." I smiled widely, pleased with my simple solution. I rubbed my hands and turned back to my work.

However, John stepped forward and caught my eye. I sighed and turned back to him.

"It's not that easy, Sherlock," he said quietly, sitting down next to me at the kitchen table where I was conducting my experiment.

"Yes it is. Mycroft _is_ the British government, you know."

"Yes, I _know_," he said in frustration.

I took a moment to examine John, as I often did.

He was reserved at the moment, and sought to avoid my eyes. I suspected they would betray his true thoughts if they were to look directly at me. But of course his shyness revealed all I needed to know from him. He licked his lips and cleared his throat multiple times as we sat in silence. Most of all, he was twitching uncontrollably.

Oh God. This was _not _good.

"You _want_ to go." It wasn't a question.

But John answered anyway. "Yes I do."

He still avoided my eyes. Coward.

"John, look at me."

He complied immediately, knowing better than to ignore a command like that. Good man. No wonder Moriarty had thought him a pet.

But he wasn't my pet. He was John. M-... My John. My John, whose eyes were moist with tears and regret. But also wanting.

"Why would you want to go?" I asked. I was becoming desperate.

"Because I..." he started. I didn't have to look to know his fist had wrapped itself tightly around the paper.

"They can't make you go back. You were wounded."

"I know I was... But I've gotten better. I don't use my cane anymore. I'm not depressed... It was only a matter of time."

"They don't need you! I'm positive there are other army doctors willing to go back."

John looked down at the paper in his hands as if it would give him the answer, give him something to say. "They want me. They consider me one of the best."

"Well, you _are _the best," I scoffed. "That doesn't mean you'll go back. You're _my _doctor now."

He rolled his eyes. "Now that's just selfish, Sherlock! What about all those other people out there in Afghanistan or Iraq, all those dying soldiers and wounded civilians. Don't you think they need my help too?"

I didn't answer for precisely 15 seconds. "You know that I am a naturally selfish being."

John groaned and moved to get up. "Forget about it, Sherlock."

I grabbed his wrist. His reaction was unacceptable.

"John, stop," I commanded. No, that wasn't right. He wasn't a pet, he wasn't my dog. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking, and yet I was. I always thought about what I said, but was there ever really any meaning behind my words?

"Forgive me," I began, quite uncharacteristically I might add. The words felt wrong leaving my lips, but they would have to do. "That was insensitive of me. I'm sorry."

John stopped and turned back to me. That was good. That was great.

"Well that's a change of pace. Feeling manipulative, are we?"

"W-What, no!" I stood ruefully. "And what's that supposed to mean anyway?"

He rolled his eyes, throwing his hands in the air and huffing. "As if you don't know. You're trying to make me feel guilty about leaving! Newsflash! The world _doesn't _revolve around Sherlock Holmes! I know, it's a shock for you, but you better damn well get it through your thick head that this is what _I _want, and I'm going with or without your consent!"

"How could you want to leave? You can't leave!"

"How do you _KNOW_?" he shouted. Strange... John never shouted at me. He was always so patient.

"I know, because you need me, John, and I need you."

I didn't shout back. I didn't like to shout at John. It was a waste of energy... Yes, that was my reason.

John leaned against the table, clearly trembling with frustration. I could visibly see the anger leaking out of him.

"You don't need me, Sherlock. You were fine before we ever met. That won't change with my absence."

I was silent. We had both gradually come to a stand-still, John shaking with madness and me... Well let's not get into how I felt, for I do so hate dealing with my feelings.

Let's just address John's comment, and how wrong it was. Yes, I do need you John, and no, I wasn't fine before, and yes, it will all change. You idiot.

Finally, after a long and positively _robust _silence of both parties coming to their respective senses, I took a single step to envelope John in my arms.

I was not against hugging John. Or Mrs. Hudson. I only had an aversion to touch concerning other people, because other people didn't matter. Not like Mrs. Hudson, the old bat. Not like my John.

I hugged my best friend then. Someone looking in on us might think how outrageous it was for me to be touching someone, but the thing about me is that I never do anything quite as expected, or that isn't necessary. So, conclusively, the hug was something that was necessary, that was needed.

"You won't be here to remind me to sleep, you know."

"I know."

"Or eat."

"I know."

"... Or brush my teeth."

John was quiet and I thought for a moment I'd crushed the air out of him. But then I felt a tremor coming from him, then a strangled sound, like he was choking. Alarmed, I released him slightly.

Then I realized he was laughing.

"I know, Sherlock! I know!"

I couldn't help it when my face stretched into a smile. I let go of him completely and proceeded to laugh with him.

For a moment I couldn't take my eyes off him. His eyes gleamed with joyous moisture, a brighter blue than I'd ever seen them. He was grinning from ear to ear, and I found his hands clutching my arms, which were still holding his for balance. It was a warm feeling, laughing with him. I could never laugh like this with anyone else. I didn't trust anyone else with the sound of my laughter.

After a while, our gaiety died down, and we just stood contemplating each other. No doubt John was trying to analyze me analyzing him, but he didn't realize that I didn't need to. I knew exactly what he was thinking and feeling. And it was like hell trying to accept it.

I asked him when he was leaving. He said two weeks.

Two. Weeks.

I knew immediately they would fly by like a minute, and then he'd be gone.

"You know we could video chat, if you like. If you need help on a case..." he began, but then he looked uncomfortable. He fidgeted in my arms. "Or if you just need someone to talk to."

I let go of his arms finally, realizing I had over stepped my boundaries. That wasn't something I often realized myself. John had to be the one to tell me. But my current situation had my on red alert, I presumed. "Yes, well, the skull is terrible company anyway."

That made him smile, which was good. Then he frowned, which was not good.

"I'll be home soon. I promise."

I'm sure my eyes narrowed. "You can't promise that."

"Yes I can." He leaned against the table and crossed his arms. "Because you're right. You do need me."

I felt his unspoken "I need you" more than I registered his actual words, and that was good enough for me.

I nodded numbly. The conversation seemed finished, so I turned back to my work. "Right then. Well, I should just leave you to prepare. Going back to the battlefield and all, I'm sure you're a bit rusty. Target practice, perhaps? I'm positive you don't particularly _need _it, but you can't ever bet too sure with these thi-"

"How 'bout some Chinese?"

I looked up at him and smiled. "God, I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

><p>The Chinese was good that night. The food was awful (I was forced to eat), but John and me in a Chinese restaurant was good.<p>

We didn't talk about it for the rest of the night, or the week for that matter. I continued with my work, and John continued to be my thoroughly reliable assistant. I think, in the back of both our minds, we were "cherishing" each other's company, as John might put it. I would never admit that to anyone, and it took great effort to admit it to myself.

John and I were now at a crime scene. The victim had been brutally shot down by the force of a machine gun, and John made an offhand comment that he'd be seeing a lot more of this soon in Afghanistan. I thought nothing of it, and mumbled a sort of agreement.

But of course it had to be then that I realized the gravity of his situation.

"Oh my God!" Sally Donovan exclaimed when John had told the confused taskforce that he was to be deployed next week. I hadn't realized Sally liked John that much. Honestly.

So the hug was unexpected, and when she brought _me _(the freak, remember?) into it I nearly shouted at her for being so ridiculous. I said as much, and she looked at me as if I was stupid. Me! Stupid!

"Sally, don't..." John protested, but he was too late.

The slap was unexpected, as well.

"You insensitive _bastard_!" she started. "Of course a freak like you wouldn't register that your own best mate is leaving to _risk his life _to fight for his country! Do you have any concept of how dangereous it is over there? That he may not even come home?"

Come home.

I hadn't registered the slap, or her steadily growing shouting. I did comprehend, however, two things: that I hadn't even thought about the words "may not even come home" until that moment, and that John had been trying to hold her back, or perhaps protect me from the truth.

"Sally, stop it! Of course he knows all that! Calm down!"

But I didn't know that, John. Or perhaps I did, and I was denying myself the pleasure of coming to terms with it. Didn't you know that?

* * *

><p>I think it all settled in that he was really leaving me when he cooked the night before he left.<p>

It was... rather unexpected. Lots of unexpected things were happening to me lately, and it was all frustrating, to say the least. I always expected things. I was too intellectual not to.

When John called me out of my boredom with "Dinner, Sherlock!" I'd expected take-out or some other simple meal.

It seemed I'd been oblivious that night. I hadn't even realized that he'd spent the entire day cleaning the kitchen preparing a three course meal.

But my obtuseness didn't bother him, it seemed. He looked rather pleased to see my expression upon entering the kitchen, and I wanted to strangle him for being so damn cheery when I realized what was going on.

Of course it was all unexpected when I'd been bored all day. I'd spent most of my time napping on the sofa (shocking, I know). The rest I had wasted away playing the violin and shooting the wall (not at the same time, but that would have been quite an interesting experiment). I suppose I was also oblivious to John's begging me to keep it down because he was concentrating on _cooking_. If I'd registered his pleading at all, it had been deleted on the premise of being trite and uninteresting.

One might ask why I hadn't spent the day with John, or at least demanded that I spend it with him, and when he wouldn't, I would have bothered him about it while he was cooking. The truth, the painfully obvious truth, was that I'd deleted the date he was to leave from my memory until he reminded me. I suppose I wanted to pretend that he wasn't really leaving, but unfortunately, I couldn't. Reality, that obnoxious and frightful entity that it was, was screaming in my face.

Now I wished I'd payed more attention, wished I remembered. I wouldn't be so bored if I'd been curious to what he was doing. I could have even helped, but I was stuck with him imagining him slaving over a hot stove, like a prim little housewife. It was an entertaining image, but disheartening, as well.

He now stood at the farther end of the kitchen table, opposite me. His smile was large and inviting, his eyes sparkling with expectance. "I just, uh, wanted to do something special, since we won't be seeing each other for a while... After tomorrow."

He rubbed a hand through his hair as he laughed. I hated that hair. He'd cut it yesterday, in accordance with army regulations. It reminded me of cold and unmoving John, before we met. Before he was _my _John. even the gray speck was gone. How I loved that gray speck.

"This is wonderful, John," I said, before my thoughts betrayed me. I forced a smile on my face, even though I was internally screaming "Don't leave me alone, don't go, don't go and fight that war all alone, that has nothing to do with us, stay and cook for me. I'll eat whatever you like, as long as you stay and cook it."

That train of thought repeated over and over as we ate together, presumably for the last time before he was ripped from my life like broken glass. Clever as I was, it was easy for me to pretend, to smile and act like I was complaining about eating because it slowed me down (in truth it was the best food I'd ever had in my entire life), easy to listen to John's stories of Afghanistan and his excitement of going back, easy to put on a mask that said "I'm happy for you" when I was really dying inside.

'_Good God, John... Don't you know I don't know what I'm going to do without my my blogger?' _I thought as I offered to wash the dishes. John was stunned, as I'd never washed dishes in my life. He wasn't sure I knew how, and neither was i. But really, I just wanted him to get some rest. He'd been working all day cooking and cleaning, just for me, when _I _should have been cooking and cleaning for him. How utterly considerate of me. Oh God was I developing a conscience? That was most dreadful indeed.

Wait... Oh, of course. That's right.

John was my conscience.

And he was leaving for Afghanistan.

Tomorrow.

_Tomorrow..._

* * *

><p>Tomorrow came far too soon.<p>

My doctor couldn't take much with him. So packing had been simple. Simple that I convince him to let me do it, so that he could spend time preparing himself mentally for the war ahead. He protested, but I did it anyway.

So now we were in the cab early, heading for the airport. It was a silent ride until John said, "Sherlock, where is your scarf?"

"I lost it. No matter. I can get another one."

"Ah. It's just... strange seeing you without it."

I nodded curtly. The scarf was safe. I made sure of that.

That was when we arrived. I didn't want to leave the saftey of the cab, with John inside of course, for anything.

But he opened his door automatically and stepped out, so I was obliged to follow.

I walked behind him for once. It was incredible how completely subdued I'd become over these past two weeks. I'd eaten much more recently than I probably had in my entire life, just so I could laugh with him and spend time with him at the table. He enjoyed that, didn't he?

But he'd been steadily more distant with each passing day, and it wasn't until the night before that I felt I had his undivided attention.

Now I was becoming his dog, like he'd formerly been mine. I suppose this was a side effect of the prospect of being without him. Has it made me a bit of a stalker, or at least overly clingy? Clingy doesn't suit me, its far to sticky and messy, like silly emotions or crap telly.

What did John do to me that made my walls crumble? I'd never felt the overwhelming sensation of sorrow before, or feared being alone. Alone had been a comfort before, now it seemed foreign and strange, like an echo in a cave. Like darkness swallowing me whole.

No no. That's not it. Being alone wasn't the problem, not now, not when it doesn't matter. It was the thought of going home to 221b Baker Street without him that drove me positively bonkers inside.

"Sherlock, you alright?"

I suppose I'd been staring off into space. I hadn't even realized we'd reached the terminal.

I focused back on my John's face. Soon he'd be Afghanistan's John. What would he be like when he came back home to me once again? Would he be the war hardened veteran he'd been when I'd first met him? Would he be scarred mentally, and never recover? Would I ever see _my _John again?

Useless questions are useless.

"Yes, I'm fine," I said. he looked like he wanted to hug me. I wasn't ready for his goodbye yet. "You'll... You'll um... You'll call as soon as you land?"

He nodded with his typical reassuring smile. "First chance I get."

"Calls are expensive from Afghanistan, though. You don't _have _to call. I mean, I'm not more important that receiving your duties, you know."

"I'll call."

Stalling.

I took a deep breath and forced a smile. No no no no no...! I would not cry. _I never cry! _I'll see myself hanged before I let a single drop of moisture fall in front of him. I _will _see him soon. Just a few months, and he'll be on leave, I know it. I do.

"It's a shame your sister couldn't be here."

More stalling.

"Yes, well, she was finalizing the divorce today. I'll call her when I get there, too."

"Mycroft too? He's taken a liking to you, you know. Heaven knows why he has any interest in a friend of mine, other than to protect me. But he genuinely likes you, so it must be different. So you'll call him."

"I'll call him too."

"And Lestrade? The taskforce, too. Sally seemed particularly upset about your leaving."

"Them too, Sherlock. I'll call everyone."

I nodded quickly. Stalling was quickly becoming my favorite pastime. John knew that too. I could care less if he called any of them, so long as he called me.

"Sherlock, I have to go now."

"I know."

We were really just standing there, now. I didn't want to hug him, because then it would really mean goodbye.

So I just stood there and observed him. I'd observed him many times throughout the course of your friendship. But now I wanted to store this image of him away in my rather large and organized brain. I backed it up, then I made copies of the back up, then I set it as my "desktop" so to speak. I placed the image in every file of my brain, so that whatever I opened, I would see John's face staring up at me in understanding, smiling and sad.

"I'll miss you," the image said. Then I realized it wasn't the image, but the real John speaking.

His smile was still unwavering. You're a fool John Watson. A bloody fool. Stop smiling like that, you're giving me a headache.

"I'll miss your company," I avoided, as I usually do.

Then he hugged me. Oh, God, don't do that, don't go, don't leave me, stay please, stay! Don't fight a war for me, I don't need you to fight for me, stay take care of me, pick up my dirty laundry, cook for me, remind me to sleep, _force _me to sleep. Just don't leave, John, don't leave me alone, I don't want to be alone, not when I know now what it means to have a friend.

I inhaled his scent, that musky, warm smell that was nothing but home to me. He smelled like home. He _was_ home.

All the while, I didn't let on how hard I wanted to cry. I don't think he even noticed me screaming at him from the inside, and that was just fine by me. He would be shocked, perhaps hate me for being so selfish. But I was a selfish person.

Then he let go of me, and I felt my whole being collapse.

He nodded to me once, and saluted. Dammit John, don't salute! Don't remind me that you're theirs now, and not mine.

His bag was in his hand, and he turned away. The terminal swallowed him whole.

I wasted no time in leaving the confining space of the building.

Soon I found myself on the runway, and I watched as his plane began to take off.

There was John's face in the window, settling into his comfortable seat. And here was me, standing out in the cold air, the concrete barely holding me up.

The aeroplane was gaining speed, and I paid no mind to the people trying to stop me.

I ran.

"Come home!" I shouted through the tears I only now allowed to fall. I shouted over and over, hoping to God he heard me.

I ran.

Next to the plane, following its path. The expanse of field didn't stop me. But there was a gate up ahead which would prevent me from going further.

So I reached it too soon, and I stopped running.

Now the better half of me was on his way to a war.

And I was the half that was too much of a coward to really say goodbye.

"Goodbye!" I shouted stupidly to the disappearing speck. "Goodbye! Come home! Be safe! … Have fun? CALL ME! TEXT ME! _SAVE ME_!"

I was stuck, the words not forming properly on my tongue. There was a name to this feeling, I know it. What if this emotion was an illusion, and I was just weighed down by stress and resentment toward my loneliness? I wanted to sink to the ground from the pressure against my heart, the pressure that shouldn't exist because the heart was only an organ, not a mental entity. I kept forgetting that, deleting that fact in the favor of the more appealing explanation, the one that reassured me John was safe, John was whole, John was mine. That damn emotion that I finally let roar. Had it really been that suppressed all this time, and it was only now, when it was too late to tell him, that I felt it and could admit it to myself that I felt it?

It was devastating.

I couldn't say it... Could I? Through my screams and sobbing and banging against the fence? I wasn't myself... I needed to calm down. I wasn't Sherlock Holmes anymore. I was someone else, in another time, in a movie, in a song, in a story.

I was a man who couldn't even say it to John Watson's face.

"I... I LOVE YOU!"

* * *

><p><strong>So yeah, there's my long ass first chapter. I hope you enjoyed it, and I really hope I got Sherlock's POV down pat. I hope he wasn't OOC at all, or anything, though he might be, I dunno. I'm much better at John, I think, but you be the judge.<strong>

**So my lovelies, read and review and fav and alert! You know you want to! You know you want to see what happens next! 8D**

**Till next time!**

**-Leffie **


	2. Coping

**Title: **Come Home

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (or rather Leffie)

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 6,801 words.

**Rating:** T for teen.

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes, DI Lestrade, mentions of Anderson.

**Pairing(s):** Shwatsonlock

**Warning(s):** Too much angst for some to handle, heartbreak, death, sadness, despair, clinically insane... ness.

**Contains: **You don't wanna know...

**Notes: **This is my longest chapter to date. I'm sorry for it being so long, but I had to fit a lot into one chapter, because this fic is going to be six chapters long, and that's it. expect all of them to probably be this long, maybe more. Warning, you may just cry. Like seriously.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

**Summary: **When John is redeployed to Afghanistan, Sherlock can barely cope, especially since his newfound feelings for John have overpowered him. Video chats and phonecalls aren't enough, but when the doorbell rings, Sherlock's world melts down in seconds. Can an unasked question mend him, and can he ever be whole again?

* * *

><p>So, I'm coping.<p>

It helped that John did call as soon as he landed. I could barely contain my joy at hearing his voice, but I did. There was no letting on how much I already missed him. I talked to him while he unpacked, and imagine his shock when he found my scarf nestled next to his striped shirt, one of the few shirts I'd packed for him.

I explained to him that I must have been confused and disoriented, as every time I've ever packed for us was to go somewhere together, our things _together_, shoved in the same bag.

He bought that excuse, thank God.

God, how I loved that scarf.

… How I loved John.

I was going to say it, just fleetingly before I hung up the phone, then I'd leave him stunned and I'd go crazy wondering what he'd think about me.

But he hung up first, since his commanding officer wanted his attention.

Coward, Sherlock. You filthy coward.

* * *

><p>It was strange going home without him, knowing he wouldn't be there.<p>

The first week I knew would be the worst, so I just stayed home. I never left my computer, the video messaging system we'd set up open and waiting for John to sign on. He'd disapprove of my lack of sleep, and my starvation. But I honestly was beyond caring.

There was no message, no call for a week. God, John, shoot me, won't you? The concept of worrying is far too new to me to deal with your insufferable patience. It felt ridiculous, worrying, and Mycroft's constant calls and occasional visits didn't help my case, either.

"He'll call when he'll call. You're going to burn a hole in your rather large brain if you keep staring at that screen," he said. I told him to piss off.

At the end of the week, I permitted my body to sleep. I told myself I didn't care, that he didn't care, that he was off enjoying fighting for "the greater good." That was just like John, always the saint, always helping people. Me, I just wanted to help myself, and that was fine.

So I accepted that he wasn't going to call. That was John's way. I decided to sleep, so at least I might dream of the last image I stored away, the one that haunted me every time I closed my eyes.

* * *

><p>"Beep... beep... beep..."<p>

My lids flew open and the first thing I saw was John's face.

I'd set the video chat program to pick up calls automatically, and I'd only had one contact.

John.

"Morning, sunshine," his image said, smiling his goofy and carefree way. But he looked sad, and I wanted to know why.

"What's wrong?" I asked immediately.

His brow furrowed and he rubbed his head in embarrassment. "Nothing, nothing... Its just I feel terrible for not calling sooner."

My face softened. I realized that I must have been subconsciously glaring at him in a disapproval and annoyance. Well, it was a good defense mechanism. Now he wouldn't know how worried I'd been.

"Do better next time _not _to keep me waiting. You of all people should know I'm not a patient man."

He laughed, and I smiled. I was angry with him, but it subsided.

He told me he had been busy the entire week attending to wounded soldiers. It would seem his new unit's former doctor had been incapacitated (read: drunk on the job and discharged), so they had needed him more than he'd thought.

"So you're alone now," I stated. He nodded, and I added, "Are you enjoying yourself?"

John raised an eyebrow. "As much as I ever will fighting a war, I guess."

"But this is what you were trained to do, save lives on the battlefield. You're not really fighting, John." I was the one fighting, all the time.

He was thoughtful for a moment, then said, "Yes, I enjoy myself in that sense. It _is _nice to be doing what I love again."

Another small smile from me. John had that affect on me, to smile often.

"Any new cases?" he asked.

"Yes, there is one in particular I needed your assistance on." I reached my lengthy arm to the coffee table, and grabbed a random sheet of paper, didn't matter which.

I related to him an imaginary case, as if reading information from the page. I hadn't had a case since he left of course, but just the act of hearing his diagnosis, his own mild observations was enough to last me weeks.

I just wanted to sit like this for as long as possible. _Im_possible, really, for my long as possible was most certainly would never be other people's long as possible, including John's. Mine was to the ends of eternity, which wasn't nearly long enough.

The smile, the laugh, the roll of the eyes. John. This was wonderful. If we hadn't been separated by thousands of miles and a computer screen, it would be almost normal. What a frustratingly shocking notion. The last I checked the word normal hadn't been permitted into my vocabulary, but here it was, staring at me in the form of John's eyes. On a computer screen.

"How are you, Sherlock?" he asked suddenly.

I blinked. "What do you mean, I told you everything's fine."

"So, you have eaten, right?"

"Yes," I lied.

"Slept? Of course you've slept, I called you while you were sleeping."

I didn't tell him that was the first time I'd closed my eyes since he'd left.

A long pause, and a stern stare.

"Have you brushed your teeth?"

I glared at him for a long moment, and then I couldn't help it. I burst out in a fit of laughter.

John laughed with me, like he expected the laugh to occur.

Funny John, trying to make jokes when he was in one of the most dangerous countries in the world.

So now the joke's on me.

* * *

><p>The days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months. They were... fine. Mediocre at best. Then I realized about halfway into the second month that this is what my life had been like without John, before I'd met him. It was a outstanding realization.<p>

What a dreary sort of man I'd become, having to rely on another man for "needs." I'd once thought work was all I'd desired, but being with John, being his friend had made me into quite the parasite. I was far removed from the intellectual world in his presence, and I felt considerably human, more or less.

I'd noticed a direct change in my attitude the moment I went back to work with the task force. A new case was what I needed, but we all felt quite empty without the good doctor by our sides. Sally made less quips than usual, and I suddenly missed her persistent suggestions that John find a hobby of some sort to counterbalance time spent with me. That was gone, and she suddenly didn't seem like she wanted to insult me anymore. Like it didn't matter when no one was there to defend my honor.

Surprisingly, Anderson always looked a bit grim, though he and John rarely spoke. I soon realized that it was my somber moods that led him to neglect trying to upstage me. I didn't feel like upstaging anyone, either.

Lestrade felt it the worst of all of them, I think. Perhaps he and John had grown close over the months my love (as I began referring to John after I confessed my feelings to myself) and I had begun living together. I'd often observed their laughter about inconsequential things in the living room as I transformed from my bored, robed self to my more usual posh style for a new case. I supposed they were what they call "pals" for lack of a better word (shocking that I can't think of another word, I know, I surprise myself sometimes). I looked at him and I did not see longing, but an emptiness, an emptiness I found in all of them. Or maybe it was just me that was empty, me on the outside looking in.

John might have said "brilliant!" or "that is un-freaking-believable, Sherlock!" when I made my (simple) deductions at these gloomy crime scenes. He might have just brightened up the mood. There was none of that, no one to combat the "piss off"s and the "fuck you" looks people gave me when I was myself. I felt small. I felt needy. I never needed anyone to do that for me, I just took the punches. John knew that, and yet he still felt the need to protect me. What was that?

I remember when my love and I had had a talk. It was a difficult talk, so I made sure I was as ambiguous and uncaring with my responses as possible, but John pulled the damned feelings out of me. He had asked me why I looked so tired and sad whenever I made deductions and people laughed. He had thought perhaps, before he'd realized how I normally looked after such an instance, that I would be smug about it all, in the way that I would know that I'm better than them, and I shouldn't let their laughter dissuade me. He really thought that was what I felt. Well perhaps it had been at one point, but the human mainframe can only take so much of that haughtiness.

When he asked me that, I asked him why he thought I had been a drug user. He replied, quite plainly, that he thought "my mind needed stimulation." He said that I'd even told him that once. Perhaps I deleted it.

He was very, very wrong.

My love was astonished to learn that I'd once been a teenager. I thought him so incredibly stupid, but that was always his way, his charm, always bringing up the flaming obvious. I told him I was not always so very bad at being human and normal, and he believed me. But only for a moment, then the realization hit, at last. He embraced me.

He was so sorry.

Oh, but listen to me, sulking. I do so hate living in the past.

Though I had been having a miserable time with the task force, the video chats were nice... for a stint. Then they became annoying. I was always worried he'd be away when I was available to talk, and I would miss him, and regret not being there with him. He didn't let on how much he missed me.

He was always so excited to discuss everything he'd been doing. He talked about the friends he'd made in his new unit, the lives he'd saved, the battles he'd been in. I was jealous of the friends, envious of the people he'd treated with my doctor's hands, and fearful for his life all the time.

I loved my doctor, and I couldn't tell him.

I just listened to his stories with nods and smiles and sometimes even looked bored, so that he wouldn't see the change in me. On the inside I memorized every word, the sound of his voice, how his eyes moved and how he licked his lips when thinking. These would become memories that would be shown in my head even when I slept, when I was away from him, whenever wherever. The metaphorical replay button in the Youtube player in my mind was broken.

"Sherlock," John said to me today, "Are you alright?"

He was catching me staring at him, I knew it. "Fine, fine," I said, not averting his eyes.

His brow furrowed. "You sure?"

I nodded.

John shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's just I get the feeling this is all going through one ear and coming out the other, with you."

"That's ludicrous, words cannot pass through the brain unprocessed, and both ears take in information at the same exact ti-"

"It's a _figure of speech_, Sherlock."

I blinked. I had caused my John frustration. What a truly terrible friend I was.

"John, I'm perfectly fine, and I'm perfectly hearing you. Your orderly Robinson is married with a small child at home, you've encountered two dead corpses along the path to your last checkpoint, and your surprised to find your commanding officer is a complete arse of a drunk who doesn't give a damn about the war. And yes, I did deduce that one by your manner of speaking about him. I'm _listening_."

My love let out a disgruntled sigh, running his fingers through his short, chopped hair that had decidedly become grayer since I last saw him in person. Or perhaps it was the colorization of the web-cam.

"I know, Sherlock, I know. But just because you're listening doesn't mean you understand. It's not like I can expect you to."

This was puzzling. Understand what? That he was happy, having a good time, even though things were quite difficult? I understood that perfectly, as I'd been in many a situation where I felt that way (though only when John was around, really).

"Understand what, John?" I asked him.

He looked at me. No, I mean really looked. The distance and space between us in the world didn't matter at that point, because right then and there he was in that room with me and I could hear him breathing. I swallowed quietly.

"Nothing Sherlock. You don't have to understand anything."

John, you're being ridiculous. Of course I have to understand everything, I'm _Sherlock Holmes_, the greatest mind the world has ever seen. I have to know everything, else I be humiliated.

I didn't speak my thoughts aloud. My consideration for John had grown over the time we've spent together. I didn't want to upset him. I was egotistical, selfish, like he said when he told me he'd be leaving me. I like to think my selfishness becomes me, but John always thought otherwise.

"Okay," I said. "Fine."

My feet found the floor from the position I'd been in on the couch. I held the computer squarely between my hands and scratched at the enamel on the stickers underneath. I placed a smile on my face that was clearly unhappy, and John did the same on the little screen. I needed a bigger computer. John was so small on this one, I wanted him to be life size. Like I could hold him if I just reached out and touched.

"I've got to go, Sherlock, my break is up."

"Alright."

I sat there for a moment while he signed off.

Another chance wasted. I could have told him, I really could have. Maybe then he'd know I understood.

But what if he didn't love me back? Oh yes, I knew all about rejection. He... he had to love me back. If he didn't, then I was ruined. All would know the self-diagnosed sociopath would never be self-diagnosed again. He would loos his frighteningly clean reputation of emotionless order.

I don't like feelings, it's why I decided to become a sociopath. But if I lost that, at least John feelings for me would make it bearable. If he didn't have those feelings, then everything would be bearable. If not, then I would be in chaos.

It was highly probably, extremely likely, that my love's feelings were not mutual. He had clearly displayed interest in me when we first met, but me, dear blind me, wasn't prepared to allow him completely and utterly into my life just yet. I wasn't prepared to care for him and now he thought the marriage to my work had meant that I couldn't have an affair with my doctor.

Perhaps he gave up. Perhaps that laughing I'd heard in the hall when I disrobed for the case and came back clothed as myself to the "pals" wasn't innocent at all. Perhaps the biggest flirt in the world (i.e. John) was playing for more teams than just mine. I wasn't blind. Just in denial.

I'd lost so many chances. I felt weak and worn on the couch.

"Sherlock?"

It was Lestrade, standing over me. It was night now, the moonlight streaming through the windows behind me and hitting the hibernating screen of my laptop. My face shown back at me. Eyes... red. Lips... in a frown. Skin... pallid. Nostrils... fuming.

Lestrade bent down and closed the computer, looking up at me with a sympathetic expression. "What happened?" his lips moved.

I felt empty. I'd been sitting there for hours with no thoughts but of John. My ever expanding brain was filled with his face and confined in a cage.

I shook my head and stood, leaving the laptop behind. "Nothing, I'm fine. What do you need? Is it a homicide?" I moved to put on my coat and scarf to prepare for a long night.

Lestrade's silvery head lolled as he stood up, grunting. "Mrs. Hudson called me."

I was confused.

The Detective Inspector was incredulous. "She was _worried_ about you, Sherlock. And frankly... I'm a little worried myself." His eyes were downcast at my chest, gesturing something I'd yet to notice. My head dipped down, and I groaned.

"Do you often wear your pyjamas to a crime scene, or are we having a slumber party with the victim?"

I stormed off to my bedroom and slammed the door.

I returned feeling refreshed some minutes later, but I was still annoyed.

Lestrade was in the kitchen, making tea. It was a small comfort that John usually gave me. John was off in Afghanistan making tea for the wounded.

"Drink this," Lestrade ordered, handing me the steaming cup with remorse in his eyes.

"Mrs. Hudson called you," I stated blandly. "Why should you care?"

The man shrugged. "I suppose because whether you like it or not, we're mates, and mates look out for each other.

My astonishment was partially hidden. "We're mates?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "We've known each other for nearly six years."

"Colleagues, perhaps."

"Yes, Sherlock we're mates."

An interesting revelation, to say the least. I'd previously thought John was my only friend.

I suddenly felt... warm. And loved.

I suppose I smiled. "Thank you Lestrade... Thank you."

* * *

><p>"Morning Sherlock!"<p>

"Good morning, Sally!"

It was three months later. I was at a crime scene downtown. There was a robbery at an insignificant museum, but a priceless painting had been vandalized. I was called in to investigate a) because there was no evidence, no fingerprints, no nothing, and b) I wanted a case.

Case after case after case, ever since that night with Lestrade. I suppose I was trying to counter the overwhelming need clawing at my gut that I needed to be with John with a little stimulation, as my love might put it. you could say that the task force became my best friends after that. When I told John how well Sally and I had been getting on, he nearly choked on his breakfast. I made it a point to never tell him life threatening news of that caliber ever again.

Anderson was still my archenemies, but there was an unstated peace between us after I began insulting him again, like I used to. I noticed how he noticed I was attempting normalcy.

And Lestrade... Well Lestrade was the only one who really understood my need for company at this point in my life. Soon after the night he made me tea, I'd confronted him about whether or not he had feelings for John (on the basis of an offhand comment, of course; I couldn't let him know the sociopath had a heart).

_Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, we all know you love him," he revealed. My jaw actually dropped._

"_It's obvious. Ever since he left, especially, you've been a walking corpse."_

_I rolled my eyes. "The possibilities of anyone resembling 'zombie' like traits is next to impossible, since zombies don't actually exist."_

"_Sherlock, shut up and listen to me. I don't love John, I don't even like him in that way. I'm a completely straight male, for one thing, and even if I wasn't... Eh..." he seemed indecisive. "How do I put this. There's a sort of... unspoken 'bro-code' as the Americans put it where a guy doesn't try to steal his mate's girl... Or rather John, in your case."_

_I blinked. "There... is?"_

_Lestrade nodded. "Don't worry about it, when he gets back, you don't have to bother with fending me off," he laughed._

_I sighed in relief, and continued walking. We were heading for Chinese, a tradition John and I started after a case. It felt wrong going alone, so when I'd told Lestrade about it, he offered to come with me while John was away._

_When we'd finally sat down and ordered, we settled into talking. _

"_Do you know when he's scheduled to go on leave?" Lestrade asked as he folded his napkin in his lap._

_I shrugged, leaning back in my chair and running my fingers through my unruly hair. "Supposedly Christmas, but that's a ways off..."_

"_I'm sorry, Sherlock. At least you get to video chat with hi-"_

"_It's not the same."_

_We shared a look that meant he understood. _

"_Well, time will fly by before you know it. I think we all miss him."_

"_Not as much as I do... Can we talk about something else?"_

"_Sure, sure."_

_We went over the case together again, and then our food arrived. I'd taken to a habit of eating Chinese every time John and I had it, and I became used to it. Now ordering (and eating) the food was natural to me. It was all do to the stipulation that eating only slowed me down during a case, not after it. That was John's idea, not mine._

_Talk about the case some more, and then we fell silent._

_It became perfectly clear at that point to me that Lestrade wasn't John. The small comfort that he brought me wasn't the kind of comfort I needed. But he made the whole thing bearable._

"_What are you going to do when he gets back?" he suddenly asked._

_I was taken aback, I think. For once in my life I didn't know what to say._

"_I... I don't know. He doesn't know that I love him." _

_I pushed a mushroom to the edge of my plate and sighed._

"_What am I supposed to do?"_

"_You could tell him...?"_

"_I've tried that... I just can't do it."_

_I can't do it._

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

It seemed to be the broken glass that spoke, but it was really Sally. I was gazing down at the pots that were broken underneath the shattered display, saddened by the lack of respect for such antiques.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, fine. Why?"

Donovan shrugged. "You're not being your usual freaky-deaky self today. If anything I'd say you were almost normal. What's a 'genius' like you doin' mourning over a few meaningless bowls, hmm?"

I rolled my eyes, adjusting my coat and pulling out my magnifying glass. It was getting a bit chilly again. Before I knew it Christmas would be around, and John-

"Just because I'm analytical doesn't mean I don't appreciate art, Sally," I cut my thoughts off. The task force had been right: there were no fingerprints. But that really didn't mean there wasn't any evidence.

"What do you make of it, Sherlock?" Lestrade said, coming up behind the both off us and clapping me on the shoulder. I reverberated unpleasantly and slithered out of his touch to examine the vandalized painting. The frame was spray painted pink, which brought to mind memories of a case also dealing with spray paint. Memories that were rather unpleasant to say the least.

"The painting was obviously ripped from the same weapon that the glass cases were shattered. Relate to me what was stolen, exactly from the inventory of the museum."

I scrutinized the destroyed canvas as Lestrade rattled off the list. There were jewels from the Victorian era, a revolutionary musket, and a small effigy of a Greek goddess, as well as other small. Nothing really stood out among the things apart from the fact that they were all small and not very important, in my opinion.

"What was the goddess's name?" I asked Lestrade as I finally lifted the large tear up to look at the actual painting.

"Aphrodite, I think it was. The goddess of-"

"Love."

It was a pair of young lovers in a soft, revolutionary light. They were laughing on a swing settled in a shaft of sunlight, which beat down on their smiling faces and landed on the greenish yellow grass surrounding their feet. They were holding hands and leaning against one another, as if one of them might fall off the swing if the other let go. He was fair and dark haired, an elegant hat resting on his head, his dress posh and refined. The woman was plain but likable, with line red lips the stretched into a beautiful grin. She was far older than the boy, who seemed not but 18, or 20. And yet they fit together perfectly, like they were made to rest on the swing for the rest of their lives, the sun never setting on their laughter.

But the sun did set, when the thief who had vandalized the museum took a pick axe and raked its tip between the lovers, separating them for all of time.

"It's an original. The only one in the world," Lestrade said, bringing me out of my dizzy and incomprehensible thoughts (though they often were when I neglected to delete anything).

"Pity," said I.

I decided at that moment to set about copying the painting in my own hand, no matter what. It should never be forgotten, and the lovers should reunite.

* * *

><p>I wasn't skilled at painting. I enjoyed the arts, but I rarely dabbled in them apart from my violin. This was different, it had to be done. I suppose I could have employed a copyist, but I wanted to do this myself.<p>

The case had been simple, something about a jealous lover, I hardly remember it now. What mattered was that after the painting had gone through evidence examination I swiftly bought it right from under their noses. I wasn't sure I could do it, but I had a feeling Mycroft was pulling a few strings. Perhaps for my well-being. Probably.

"Sherlock, what _are _you doing?"

"No, no stay RIGHT there John! Hang on, let me just get it in to the liiiiight, ah! There we are!" I clasped my hands together in accomplishment.

"What is it?" my former flatmate said, waaaay over in Afghanistan.

"It's the painting! The one I told you about! See?" I said, bringing the original torn one (which I'd temporarily patched it up so that I could reference it) out and placing it beside the camera.

My version was a work in progress, but it was nice and vibrant, I thought. Perhaps too vibrant, now that I looked at it. Needed a few more pastels thrown in. But it was halfway done, I thought, and it only took me a month to get this far. I'd have it done by the time John returned home for the holidays.

"Sherlock, it's very... beautiful? Is that alright? I'm not sure what I should call it." He scratched his head.

My brow furrowed. "Well do you not like it?" I accused. "I've worked hard on this, you know, it's very rude to say otherwise, even if you don't think it."

My love rolled his eyes. "And how do you know that?"

I sniffed, crossing my paint splattered arms and looking down at John with a judging gaze. "I have my ways, of course. It's not finished you know, I told you that."

"Yes, I _know_, Sherlock, but I keep wondering what's possessed you to copy a painting by some unknown artist that you found at a crime scene! It's completely mental!"

I paused. "I thought you going off to Afghanistan again was completely mental, but when was the last time I complained?"

John stopped his griping and laughed. "Touche. You're right, I'm sorry."

I smiled, and knelt in front of the couch where I'd placed my new laptop (a much bigger one, easily three times the size of my old net book which I still used for cases).

"You'll be coming home to the finished product in December, then you'll understand, John." I rested my head in my hands and raised my eyebrow at him, smirking.

He nodded. "I'm sure I will, Sherlock, I'm sure I will."

There was an awkward silence, and in those situations I had no idea what to do. I was usually so wordy, verbose, and rather confident in myself that they never happened, but John's eyes in that particular light were mesmerizing.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

I realized I'd been staring. I coughed, saying, "Sorry, just thinking about the case."

"Case, what case?"

I laughed at the memory his words brought up, but shook my head at his confusion. "The case attached to this painting. I don't remember it exactly, as I'd deleted most of the schmoopy," a word Sally had taught me, "motives after it had ended."

John was a little taken aback by my language, but he asked anyway, "How did it end?"

I shrugged. "Oh, with love being the strongest motivator, as always. I wasn't particularly surprised, but then again-"

"You never are."

I smiled, and John smiled back. Suddenly, a voice rang out on the other end of the video and John was speaking abruptly with a commanding officer.

"Sorry Sherlock, gotta run, talk to you later?" he asked as he moved away from the computer.

I nodded.

Oh God, did I want to say it then more than ever. I love you, just say it! I love you John, I love you so much, I love you.

"I love-"

John waved bye and the screen went blank.

"-you."

He hadn't heard. There was a time lag. It would have turned off before he heard it.

He probably didn't even see the blush rising up my face or the tears welling in my eyes. It was the 287th time I've tried to tell him.

I decided to give up counting.

* * *

><p>There was snow all around outside. It was positively breathtaking, and I loved it even more when I knew that in a week, John would be home.<p>

I was completely elated, and nothing could bring me down from cloud nine, because this was it. When he came home, I would tell him I loved him. I couldn't put it off anymore, so I devised a perfectly brilliant plan to tell my love how I felt.

I had never really celebrated Christmas before, I mean really celebrated it. John and I had shared a few drinks and watched a few mindless holiday movies before, but nothing like the typical Christmas with your tree and your presents and your decorations.

So I enlisted the help of Mrs. Hudson, and after a couple days the flat looked positively spectacular. Christmas was everywhere, in the kitchen, on the mantle, and in the bedrooms (I hoped John wouldn't mind). There were wreathes hanging from the walls and all the doors including the front, lights on the windows outside and the panes of the front steps. On the mantle there were three personalized stockings for each of us. John's was in the middle. My skull wore a festive Christmas hat and all I could feel was good cheer.

I couldn't stop _baking _either. I swore when John got there he wouldn't know what to do with all the gingerbread and cookies and cakes I'd made, some burnt to a crisp and others positively perfect (I was experimenting, alright?).

"Sherlock dear, I think you need to slow down on the baking! We're going to run out of sugar!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed upon seeing me in the kitchen (again). "I swear, I haven't seen this kitchen used this much as a _kitchen _since before you lived here!"

I grinned, pulling out my latest sheet of oatmeal cookies. I placed them on the counter to cool, then I would add to the jars lining the counters filled with the treats.

"Do you think he'll like it all, Mrs. Hudson?" I asked. She figured out a while ago how much I loved John, and she was just happy to make me happy, I think.

She walked over to me and patted me on my arm, smiling up at me with that warm motherly smile of hers. I wished sometimes she had been my mother, instead of mum, who was never there.

"I'm sure he'll be so delighted, sweetheart. But don't you think you're overdoing yourself a little? Take it easy, just a bit?"

I sighed, shaking my head. "It's not that I don't want to stop, but I can't. I need something to stimulate all this energy built up inside of me, and... Well..."

I couldn't very well take to drugs again just before John got home.

"Why don't you take a case then? I'm sure that'll do you good."

I rolled my head. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson! I can't think about work now!" What a shocking phrase coming from my mouth. "Not when John's going to be home soon!" I flitted into the living room and admired the tree standing in quiet servitude for festivities. It was strung with brand new ornaments and ones I'd made, topped with a silvery star that reminded me oddly of John. There were presents under the tree, some for John from me and Mrs. Hudson, some from her to me, and then some Mycroft had sent over with Anthea (he was out of the country on business for the holidays).

I moved closer and saw the thin, square wrapped gift perching next to the box of two jumpers Mrs. Hudson had knitted John. It was the painting that I'd finished, and I was planning on giving it to him. When he saw it, I knew he'd love it, even though he was wary of it when it was unfinished.

I stood again and sighed. I finally decided to take a break, so I sat down in my chair, spreading my feet out in front of me and steepling my hands beneath my chin. Mrs. Hudson joined me and turned the mute button off of the tv. It's a Wonderful Life was playing, and while I rarely enjoyed American movies (or any movies for that matter), I was slightly engrossed in the idea of what the world would be like if one person weren't in it.

I thought about my own life, and how if I'd never been born, I might not have caused mummy so many problems and she wouldn't have had to run off with her lover. Then my father wouldn't have killed himself, and Mycroft wouldn't have anyone to take care of. He would have felt much better about himself, probably, without having to fret over my well-being. Mrs. Hudson's awful husband might still be alive, Angelo would be in prison for life, Molly Hooper might have ended up at the bottom of a lake thinking no one payed attention to her (when in fact I do, and she notices), Lestrade's cases would never be solved, and John Watson's life never would have been put back together. I'm not stupid, I know I became his therapist after the war. I was hoping to be his therapist again when he got back. I suppose I changed his life, and he changed mine. I thought I was a sociopath, but now, looking back at all the Christmas decorations and the lights and the presents and the cookies and gingerbread, I felt completely human. No doubt my love would be proud when he returned.

I hummed a soft melody and rang one of the small bells I'd attached to my chair as a decoration, hoping an angel received his wings.

* * *

><p>"GOD Mrs. Hudson why didn't you wake me UP?" I screamed.<p>

It was finally time. It was the day John was returning home. I hadn't heard from him since last week, since he had to finalize everything paperwork wise, pack, attend the wounded, and get to a small plane that would take him to a larger airport. He'd asked me not to come pick him up, and I don't know why. I could probably deduce it, but my deducing abilities had been haywire ever since I realized John would be home soon. They'd probably go back to normal once he left... Or perhaps not, since whether or not he would accept my advances still hung in the air.

I'd slept in after a day and night of solving cases before, because I'd baked enough goods to feed a small third world country (I'm exaggerating, see? John's sarcasm has really gotten to me. I felt so normal). The entire task force saw how happy I was, and I think that they became slightly happy as well.

I slipped quickly into my purple shirt and hopped into my pants, trying to get out of the bedroom and into the bathroom as quickly as possible to freshen up. When did I become so worried about every little thing in the world?

"Sherlock, I'm popping out for a bit," Mrs. Hudson called from the downstairs hall. "You DID use all the sugar, and I'm sure John will want some tea when he gets here!"

"Fine, fine Mrs. Hudson! Just hurry home soon! John will want to see you!"

"Be back soon, dearie!" I heard as the front door shut with a satisfyingly gentle slam.

Look at me, caring for my love's happiness. I hoped he'd be happy when he saw all I'd done for him. I hope he'd figure out the depth of my love, and wouldn't play the idiot I knew he wasn't. He was a very perceptive man when it pleased him.

I combed my hair slowly and smiled. My shirt was askew, so I fixed that and tucked it into my pants. I exited the bathroom and sat in my chair to lace up my shoes quickly. There now. I stood back up and looked all around, making sure everything was perfect. The lights all over the house was on, the mistletoe was in place in the door to the flat (Oh God, oh God, oh God, what if we do kiss? What'll I do, I've never kissed before!), and the skull was looking delightfully cheery with his Santa hat on. I felt accomplished.

I decided to reward myself with one of the sugar cookie that I'd baked the day before yesterday. I skipped (yes, skipped, don't judge me) and plucked one from the nearest jar. It was delicious, though I wasn't a fan of eating usually. The sugar begged to be devoured.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door downstairs.

I wondered who it was, but then I remembered that I had forgot to pack John's key in his suitcase, and it was sitting on the hall table where he usually left it. I realized it must be John!

I swallowed the bit of the cookie I was eating and set it down on the frightfully clean counter (John would love seeing it when he got upstairs).

My heart was pounding. Finally seeing him again in the flesh. It was... unreal. Completely not real. I was dreaming, I was really dreaming. I would be able to hug him, he'd allow that at first before I told him how I felt. I would be able to smell him, and he'd hug me back.

I very nearly tripped trying to run down the stairs, but I righted myself before the door. I straightened my shirt and placed a large smile on my face, clearing my throat.

I opened the door.

It wasn't John, but two men. Fair enough, he would come later.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

They both looked very uncomfortable, and I had no idea why. Funny, me not having any idea why.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

I nodded. "Yes, I am."

The tone in the first man's voice was grave. Grave...

"I'm afraid we have some difficult news to bring you. Would you mind if we came inside?" the second man said, equally distraught.

It was then I saw what they were wearing. Everywhere their faces and their clothing and their manner of speaking finally said Her Royal Majesty's Army.

My hand slipped from the doorknob.

The last of the sugar cookie tasted inexplicably sour in my mouth.


	3. Screaming

**Title: **Come Home

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (or rather Leffie)  
><strong><br>Fandom: **Sherlock (TV series)  
><strong><br>Wordcount: **13,887 words (I'm not kidding)  
><strong><br>Rating: **T for teen.  
><strong><br>Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes, DI Lestrade, Anderson, Stamford, Angelo.  
><strong><br>Pairing(s): **Shwatsonlock  
><strong><br>Warning(s): **Too much angst for some to handle, heartbreak, death, sadness, despair, clinically insane... ness.  
><strong><br>Contains: **... That feeling you get when you know that this is going to be the saddest thing you'll ever read apart from "Alone on the Water?" Yeah... It has that.  
><strong><br>Notes: **Hey guys... Sorry this took so long, but... you can see by the length of the chapter and the content of it why. Literally, this chapter killed me. I finished it just now, and this is the longest chapter I've ever written for a fanfic, though I know that the next three chapters are going to be just as long. They have to be, or else the flow of the fic is wrong. And I am SO very sorry if this murders any one of you's will to live. Okay, okay, no it won't do that. But I know you'll be sad, so all my comments are going to be made right here. There is a reference to the original stories in this that I totally made by accident then realized it and added more of it in. See if you can find it! (I know you will). I also apologize if I get the protocol for funerals wrong. I've never been to one, especially a British one. So I don't really know. Everyone pretty much talks at the funeral, so... Sorry for all the feels you're going to have.

I'm actually about to give you more, because guess what guys? I made a video based on this fic. Yes, you're going to cry. I promise: http : / /www. youtube. com / watch?v = dAVNwmzWJCg& context=C4f7e5f9ADvjVQa1Ppc =

Copy all of that and paste it, removing the spaces (there are a few of them). And please, if you comment on the video, comment ON youtube if you have a youtube account. If not, you can comment on here. I don't have any comments on the video yet, and I'd like to get some. :3

Again, I apologize in advance. As always, read and review, since I'm leaving the fic on the note I leave it on, rather than commenting. OH! And I'm going to be going back to chapters one and two and fixing any errors that may have occurred, especially in chapter two, so keep checking back to the fic to see if they're fixed. I'll put in the chapter AN that the chapter is fixed completely.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3  
><strong><br>Summary: **When John is redeployed to Afghanistan, Sherlock can barely cope, especially since his newfound feelings for John have overpowered him. Video chats and phonecalls aren't enough, but when the doorbell rings, Sherlock's world melts down in seconds. Can an unasked question mend him, and can he ever be whole again?

* * *

><p>Hell was freezing over.<p>

"Sir, may we come in...?"

My lips moved, but no sound came out. I wanted to speak, to tell them to go away, shut up, leave me alone. Nothing but muddled noises.

"Mr. Holmes, do you need to sit down?"

"F-Fine, fine." That wasn't right. It wasn't my voice. It was cracked and breathless. It was another, weaker man's voice. It wasn't the familiar drone that I'd perfected. It was hateful, and made me feel vulnerable.

Let me try again.

"I'm fine, I know exactly what you're here to tell me, so there's no need for you to step inside. I'd like you to leave this premise immediately, and _don't _have a good day, thank you."

There was my voice. Distant and cold. I couldn't, however, bar the rise of pitch that clung to my throat.

I moved to close the door.

"Wait!" The first man stepped forward and placed his foot between the door and frame. I was tempted to turn his foot into jam. _Crunchy _jam.

"What?"

There it was again. Not my voice. Was that a growl? Dear me, vocal chords, what's got you so bipolar?

"We... have some things for you. Of his. We're actually obligated to return his possessions to the immediate family, so we visited his sister, Harry Watson is it? We visited her first, but she turned us away, saying to come to you," the second man explained.

"We're assuming you two were close?"

I said nothing, but held out my hand. My eyes were blank and bored.

The two men understood and one reached down and picked up a duffle bag, handing it to me. The other reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a yellow mailing envelope, giving that to me as well.

"We're very sorry for your loss."

"No you're not. He was just another number to you, another stop on dreary lane. Don't play your pity games with me. They won't. Work."

Still bored. Or was I mistaking boredom for fury?

"How."

The men who were stunned by my lack of propriety were also stunned by my demand. God these simpletons. _John _would have understood.

"Excuse me?"

"Did I stutter? I said how."

Oh finally! Realization! Praise Allah or whatever God it is people worship these days! Hallelujah!

"O-Oh... Well... We're not at liberty to release certain information to the public, Mr. Holme-"

"I'm not the commonwealth."

I smirked when they looked confused. "Perhaps you've heard of my brother? I'm sure he could arrange it so you'll tell me, though I doubt you'll want _Mycroft Holmes_ knocking on _your_ door at inconvenient times, now would you?"

Ding ding ding! Even more realization. Wonderful, absolutely stunning. We're ALL on the same page!

"Excellent! I can tell by your faces that you really are truly sorry and that you'll _relate to me the exact details of how this man died. Immediately._"

Please and thank you.

They gulped. "T-there was an intelligence mission," the second said. I laughed mentally. Intelligence was hardly something they had.

"John's a doctor, not a fighter."

He didn't like to be interrupted. He glared at me, and continued on. That was fine, be furious. I was.

"The unit had moved south, and the medical staff set up shop in a nearby safe zone temporarily. They had no idea the mission was compromised... A trap. The entire area was bombed. There were no survivors."

"No bodies were found. The service will be planned by his sister, and I'm sorry sir, but that's really all we can tell you. He died with hono-"

The door was slammed in their faces before they could even blink.

My hand lingered on the door. I just stood there, shaking. No big deal really, just tremors up my spine, and cataclysmic needs to vomit climbing up my esophagus. Pretty much every... day... stuff.

You see, I wanted to move my legs, but they wouldn't budge. So I just stood there. The bag in my hands was heavy, as was the package. My heart was considerably heavier.

I don't know when I lost my mind, but I feared I'd never find it. Even so, I was frightfully aware of my surroundings. The way the clock on the wall ticked slower than my pulse, the sound of children playing outside in the snow, the wood of the door at the tip of my nose. The way the tears caked my face.

I was breathing. Breathing wasn't boring anymore. It was hateful like my voice. Purely hateful.

The door clicked open- and I don't know how long it was since the men came and took my heart with them- but a purple arm snaked around the frame. She saw me, thankfully, but I wouldn't have minded so much if she'd rammed the daylights out of my head.

"Oh! Sherlock dear, didn't see you there. Whatever are you doing, hanging about like that like a sta-tue..."

Good. She saw me. No I mean _really _saw me. Now she'd shut up.

"Oh... oh my God..."

She saw the bag. His bag. She dropped the groceries, and the contents spilled at my feet. The container of sugar was ripped open. Ironic how the taste of the sugar cookie was also lingering in my mouth.

Her arms found mine, and my feet found their nerve. They raced away from Mr. Hudson and into the flat, where they stayed put, and the arms shut the door with a bang.

The sound of drums in my ears was deafening. The heat in my body rose from my toes all the way to my chest, my face. Was I dying? Did I have a terrible fever? Or was this all just my imagination? Had to be. The facts didn't add up. There was no way John would let himself be killed! He was strong, and brave, and kind, and undeserving of my selfishness all these years. He couldn't leave life! He was so very fond of it, preserving it by caring about the victims and their pathetic lives the way I never could. John's life wasn't pathetic. Our life wasn't pathetic. John... John couldn't be the victim now!

"God..." I muttered stupidly. My head. It was splitting open. Information flying everywhere, leaking out of me, harddrive shutting down, spilling away from me onto the carpet. No, wait, that was stomach acid. The head that held this brilliant brain of mine was being totally irrational! Don't soil the carpet, Sherlock, not when this isn't an experiment, you idiot! Stupid stupid stupid! This is _not _an experiment! I repeat, THIS IS NOT AN EXPERIMENT!

Everything fades. So did I, into black, like the end credits of my life.

* * *

><p>The painting was mocking me. I had just wanted to make it better, you know, make it whole again. Now it was laughing at my face in defiance.<p>

"Sherlock, dear?"

I nearly dropped the image, startled at Mrs. Hudson's sympathetic hand on my shoulder. How far did she have to reach up to be comfortable doing that, the little old lady? Oh, far did he...?

"Hmm, yes, I'm... I'm right here," I said.

"Well, I can see that," she smiled sadly. "I'm about to leave, if you want to come with me. I'd like to get a head start, but you can stay for a bit more, if you need to."

She was considering my feelings. How kind. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her gaze, sweet and miserable, fell to the painting in my hands. Plucking it from them, she shuffled to the mantle, sniffing along the way. "What's say we put this here? He would have liked that." She leaned the lovers against the wall, obscuring the shadow box of catalogued insects.

I nodded numbly, rubbing my now empty hands, surveying the now empty flat. Well, it would be forever empty without him. I heard Mrs. Hudson leave finally, and I was alone.

'This is the way it should be,' I told myself. The silence was calming after the two terrifying weeks of slaving... planning... preparing for today.

Harry Watson wouldn't let me see him. I'd wanted to be sure it was him, to be sure they weren't mistaken or I wasn't dreaming... But he'd been badly burned and mutilated, they'd said. Who said? Harry Watson of course, because _she _was allowed to see him. He was near unrecognizable, she'd said. Molly saw him for me, too. I sent her to examine him, saying it was in the name of science or some other falsified truth, since Harry Watson obviously didn't know that Molly and John were close. Not like he and I... But Molly... She would know John a mile away, she would be able to tell me the truth. She'd know if they were lying. She does post mortems after all.

...They weren't lying. Molly wouldn't lie to _me_.

It was John. Not just any old John, and not just any old John Watson. Not my flatmate John, not my colleague John, not my friend John... It was my... my-my John, and he was cold.

The flat was freezing. I'd neglected to tell Mrs. Hudson to turn the heat on. We'd been coming and going so quickly, early, and kept coming back late and crashing after long, legal days that being warm hardly mattered to any one of us. Least of all me.

Sitting in my usual chair, I avoided looking anywhere near his. The sight of the Union Jack pillow still fashioned in the shape of John's backside had already made me hurl once, and I didn't need to again, not today of all days. Not yet, anyway.

Instead I looked to where Christmas once was. I'd had the tree destroyed, along with every cheery thing I'd decorated the house with. The baked goods I'd given to my homeless network, hoping they'd appreciate the last kindness I deduced I'd give for a long time. It was the least I could do, honestly. Or perhaps the most, me being almost entirely unable to function since that day.

The presents, however, lay unopened apart from the painting by the fireplace. Pity no one would ever open them.

I looked away from them and down at my hands. I wondered, worried about how long I'd been shaking and crying. Must have been ages for the shaking, but the crying... Did anyone even notice...? Or care...?

My knee was bobbing up and down, in time with my trembling hands. I wished, not for the first time, but say oh, the ninety-seventh time that day that I didn't have to go to the funeral. It wasn't that I didn't want to be there for him, honestly I did. I was just immeasurably frightened. Afraid I might scream, from the sad faces looking at me, afraid of my eulogy (God help me) and what people would expect it to be, afraid I'd disappoint my brother with all these things that I was feeling. Most of all... I was so terribly afraid I'd follow my John into the grave when they lowered him six feet under.

It was hard to remember a time when I'd been this afraid. Some who barely knew me, only my analytical mind, might be appalled that the feeling even registered with me. Others would finally be appeased that I'd cracked. Honestly fear was an absurd and alien emotion to me, because I knew everything, and what I didn't know I was sensible enough to deduce, but this... this day was unknown. I could read people, predict how they'd act... but could I predict myself?

I knew the answer was equally unknown. When I glanced up, away from my pathetic, human self, I did see John's chair, even though I didn't want to. But it wasn't just his chair, no, that would have been far too simple, too much of a relief, too expected. Again... I couldn't predict today, nor could I predict this second. In reality...

I saw John.

It was a memory, but like my mind palace, I could see him as much as I could see my own reflection in a mirror. His hair was longer, and he was smiling at me, laughing, really chuckling with me at something I'd said. I'd always hated the oatmeal-coloured cable-knit jumper he'd been wearing, but suddenly it seemed just like home. Home... John was my home. Not this empty, empty flat.

"Sherlock," my memory John said. "I love you."

Well... not a memory then. A figure of my own... rather _pathetic _imagination.

Enraged with myself, I let the image disappear. I couldn't succumb to this... this weakness, I would fight grief with every weapon I possessed, including my mind, my body, and this sad excuse for a heart of mine.

I fled the flat and ran into the cold, pulling my gloves from my pocket and putting them on. I hailed a cab and sped toward the service.

Unfortunately, the ride was longer than I'd anticipated. I had a moment to myself now, and before I knew it, before I could even stop it, I was thinking again. It was hard not to think with a mind so sharp as mine. I'd left the flat in such a hurry purposely so that I didn't have to concentrate on what would come next.

I'm not talking about the eulogy, or the food, or Mycroft or all those sad faces looking at me, no, that had been fear. This... this was dread. I was dreading tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. What would I do tomorrow? I'd asked myself this question every day, at different times. Certain points in time seemed more hopeless than others, and I became even more aware of how alone I really was. The people around me tried to make it better for me, smiling and laughing and reminding me of the days when John was alive. Me? I could hardly laugh or smile with them, or even stand. I seemed to be the only one unable to regrasp the concept of life after the shock of death.

When the two men had come, they'd given me John's belongings, saying Harry Watson wanted me to have them. I didn't broach the subject with her when I saw her, however I've yet to open his bag. I don't think I ever will.

The men also brought with them the news. When I finally reached my bedroom after forcing myself up the stairs I'd collapsed in the middle of the floor. Mrs. Hudson found me there after our debacle at the front door, and she too fainted when I told her her worst fears were confirmed.

At first I wouldn't believe it. At second I determined it must be true. It was the only logical explanation of all the facts. Not some of them, but all of them. Like I said, Molly Hooper would never lie to me. Though so impossible... it had to be the truth.

This fact calmed my mind, but now... now I could barely deal with my restless, beating heart.

I looked out the frozen window of the cab, here in the present. The snow was falling steadily down. It was breathtaking. John would have liked to be buried on a snowy day.

Oh, God, No! No no no! This is... This is _unreal_! I _cannot_ be thinking of John in the past tense, can't think of what he _would _have wanted! If I thought like that, I may as well throw in the towel and give in like every normal human being does when they're suffering from this kind of loss. I wasn't any normal human being, I could _let _myself be this normal human being. That was what made John and me so perfect together, even if he hadn't loved me the way I love him. He was the average one, and I was the extraordinary one. It was how the world worked, how it functioned, how it should always function.

If I thought like Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft, even Harry Watson... I may even forget everything about him, as if he didn't exist. As if he hadn't existed...

Well, I might have been better off. In fact, I know I would have been better off. I was suddenly angry at John for ruining my life. The words "Why me?' kept repeating over and over again in my mind. Why me? Why me? Oh, why me...? Why John and not somebody else, somebody far less significant? Why did it have to be like this, with these incendiaries taking a dive at my life? Why did it have to be this thing called War that took him from me? I could have stopped it had he been near, as I always had the times his life had been threatened before. I could have dealt with the loss had the cause been natural, a heart attack perhaps... But then again, I'd never stop worrying that I'd been the cause of his stress and his death. But at least we'd have been together, at least I would have seen his face one last time. This was... this funeral meant nothing when I couldn't see him, thanks to the bastards who had killed him most definitely on purpose. I swore that I could kill them myself.

I realized this was what caring for someone deeply felt like. It was so hateful and wrong. I wanted to delete these last harrowing thoughts from my brain as we pulled up to the little church where the memorial service was being held, but I couldn't. They wouldn't leave my mind as I entered into the fray.

They were already there, cars in the little parking lot, a few people lingering outside to greet stragglers. Harry Watson was among them. I'd stayed behind longer than I'd realized, it seemed. There was Mycroft's black car with the tinted windows, Molly's little old-fashioned yellow Beetle, Lestrade's car... They were all here, waiting for me.

Including John.

* * *

><p>"He was nice," Molly Hooper said.<p>

I rolled my eyes. Nice was an understatement, but I'd let Molly have this. She looked so frightened, like I was, but it was normal for her. She always looked like a little bomb ready, waiting to explode, but having a conscience enough not to. If only I had that same conscience, still. It had died in Afghanistan.

"You know John, he... He saw me. I mean, um, he talked to me, even though no one else did." She kept looking down at her feet, but I could see her glancing at the mahogany coffin every once in awhile. Her eyes were bloodshot. "I mean, it's not like people didn't _see _me, they saw me, they talked..." Now her gaze found mine. I had to look away. Coward.

"But you know, John was always kinder about it all... Like he didn't feel obli- I mean not that anyone would feel obligated to- I mean... uh..." Poor girl was stuttering. I just... I couldn't look up.

'Come on, Molly,' I thought. 'If I have to get through this, then you can.'

Suddenly, she cleared her throat, and it was hard not to look up at her. She nodded in determination. "He was a great man, and a great friend. I'll miss him so much. W-when he first went back over there, I thought, "Oh, God, everyone is going to miss him," and they did, especially-"

Molly's eyes flickered to mine, but her gaze fluttered away. "Especially me, you know. But I knew he was fighting for all of us, because he loved us. I'm very... proud of him. He was the bravest man I've ever known, and... and-and-"

I didn't have to look at her to know she had had enough. She began to sniffle and left the podium, sitting in the aisle opposite mine, toward the front. There was a flurry of whispering, wondering who was going to speak next, and about Molly's words. There had been more people here than I thought there would be. John really had- _has _more friends than I thought.

The buzz was a deep lull as Stamford (who had decidedly lost a bit of weight since we last met) walked up to the podium. I was surprised he would speak, but I knew he and John had been mates for a long time. As he spoke, I drifted off and away, barely thinking about what I was hearing, and more about what I was seeing. I promised myself I wouldn't look, but I couldn't help but stare at it. The fact that John was inside that box, that he wasn't breathing, that he was battered and worn like the soldier he was... IS. I wanted to run away.

But I could barely move. My gaze, usually so cold and precise, blurred every which way, as if my eyes were watering, but I knew they weren't. I could never physically cry in front of anyone, especially not this many people. Not when Mycroft was right beside me, staring directly at Stamford, unmoving and completely stoic. I wish I could be the same. I couldn't cry like Mrs. Hudson, who sat on my other side, holding my hand and dabbing at her steadily flowing eyes with a handkerchief. No one would blame me for crying, in fact all but the people who knew me well would suspect it. It's hard to explain to someone my dislike of emotion. The only person who ever knew why, or how I even avoided facing my feelings, was John.

So instead of weeping, I breathed. Deeply at first, slow, calculated breaths like my personality, to steady myself, to calm myself. When I'd walked in the door, I didn't say a word to anyone for several minutes as I did this. But then I started to hyperventilate when I saw the coffin. I'd been trying, and for the most part succeeding, to keep it together, however every now and then Mycroft cleared his throat in that annoying, brotherly way that told me I had been holding my breath for far too long. It was obvious me focusing on breathing, a rather uninteresting action, was a bad thing, since I didn't put much store in it anyway. Sometimes I wish I had, wish I didn't take it for granted, wish I could give some of my breathing to John, so he could breathe again. Silly, really, isn't it?

By the time Stamford was done, I had tuned out, silently waiting for the moment when I was to go to the stand and speak. Everyone, while planning the funeral (which was spearheaded by John's sister), told me that speaking was totally optional. Mycroft had advised me not to go through with it, but he knows how I like to defy him. Brotherly affection and all.

But I wish we didn't always battle like that, like this, the way I could feel him watching me even when his eyes weren't on me. I wish I could have let go of my pride, if only for a moment, and become the coward that I truly am, embrace the fear that would keep me rooted to one spot, statuesque and uncaring. If only I didn't have to do this...

But John would have spoken at my funeral. John would have been the last to speak, the last to say goodbye to me. Why he stayed with me, why he was my friend, I guess I'll never know now. I thought I could figure him out when I met him, break that hard army exterior and watch him crumble at my mercy. I was a pathetic manipulator, at that time. I hadn't known what kind of a person he was, and I never thought I would miss him when he was gone. I never thought I could miss anyone. But now there's this immeasurable black pain inside my heart, aching and screaming and fighting at my mind. This mind, the one that had forced the heart to deny the things I felt for John. Did I really love him? Or was I only pretending so that I wouldn't have to be alone? My mind had this process, but my heart, that stupid organ that doesn't really feel, only makes you think you feel, says that I love John. I love him, and now he'll.. he'll...

Dammit all! Why was I being so pig-headed? Why couldn't I express my thoughts, why couldn't my motor skills work? I could have coped by working, I could have fought this grief by doing experiments, playing the violin, painting again? Something constructive, but... all I'd done over the past two weeks was slept. Sleeping made me dream of him, and dammit that wasn't good either! THIS is what emotions have done to me, made me barely even a shell of what I once was. This was pointless, this whole funeral just served as a wasted reminder that I-

Wait a moment... Lestrade was speaking? When did this happen? Had I been so out of it, so angry at myself that I completely disregarded the Detective Inspector standing up after Stamford left? It seemed he and John had indeed been very good friends. Lestrade had considered him (and in turn I, but he didn't mention me, like I expected he wouldn't) an honorary member of the task force. I was "touched," if that's what they call it. Look at me, getting all sentimental, like a teenage girl.

As Lestrade finished speaking, he nodded to me. I looked away. Why did everyone have to look at me? Did they just _know_, just LOVE the fact that I had been pining for John? Why did they pity me so much? Shouldn't we all just pity each other?

I sighed, but felt a disturbance by my side. Mrs. Hudson had let go of my hand, and was getting up to speak. My eyes widened in alarm.

"Mrs. Hudson, no..." I whispered, reaching for her small hand in the first gesture of life I'd made since I'd sat down in my plush little seat.

The old woman waved me off, smiling sadly maneuvering her way up to the stand. I realized how uncommon it must be for so many people to want to speak at a funeral when I glanced at the minister in the corner, seemingly uncomfortable and annoyed. Probably had another death day to attend to. I mentally criticized him for being an arse. What a bloody awful man of the cloth.

Mycroft shifted his weight, looking down at me in that adult way of his. I felt like a boy again, and clasped my hands together, scooting away from him slightly and huddling my head, as I turned my attention to the woman I liked to think of as my mother.

When she reached the stand, she decided to forgo the seat offered to her by the minister, saying instead, "I just want to say a few words, that's all." She gripped onto the stand and looked down at the casket lovingly.

"I know it's a bit silly for someone's landlady to love their tenant like I loved John, but you know, it's a bit funny. People, they come and go in your life so often that no one really makes a lasting impression, apart from family, and maybe your spouse!"

Only I chuckled profusely at that. People turned to stare at me, thinking I was being disrespectful, but Mrs. Hudson and I shared a knowing glance. She laughed herself, trying to make light. Perhaps it worked for a moment, because I was amused.

"But, John here, and Sherlock over there are different. Not just from other flat sharers, but from each other! Never in all my years have I found two people who were so... in sync with each other, if you get what I mean, and yet on opposite ends of the spectrum with their personalities!" she laughed awkwardly. She sighed, looking back toward the coffin in remembrance. "And honestly, I... I haven't met a kinder man than our John Watson. I don't think I ever will, in a million years!"

She wrung her hands together around her tear stained handkerchief. "I just wanted to say how much John changed me. You know... I think I might have been alone for my entire life, or at least whatever was left of it. No one wants to keep company with an old lady like me, but... John, dearie, he was like the son I never had. I'd often regretted not having kids, and John definitely, _definitely _filled that void... along with Sherlock."

I had stopped looking at her. I wish I could tell her that I don't deserve to be a part of anyone's speech today, but it would have been a waste of time to try to convince her otherwise.

"That's all I really wanted to say, so..." She moved toward the casket and patted where John's legs were, and walked away, smiling.

When she sat back down, I sighed, grabbing her hand and squeezing it tight. I cleared my throat, very much not ready to rise, but I didn't think anyone else would go up there. In that moment I wanted to die, or at least turn to stone, for that's exactly how I felt: like I was dying or turning into a statue.

I started to get up, in my mechanical way, when I felt Mycroft hold me down. I glared at him, begging him with my eyes to please let me get this over with, but he shook his head, nodding to the front. I looked up, and my mouth fell open as my backside hit the seat once more.

Harry Watson was standing by her brother. She looked a complete mess on closer inspection, and I couldn't really blame her. Suddenly I realized I probably looked a mess, too.

Before the funeral, we had all come to an unspoken agreement that the sister would not speak. Surely it was customary that the relatives never did this. They were too distraught, much like I was (well, she was really probably a little less, to be honest). But I reminded myself, not for the first time, that John was no ordinary dead person.

Instead of playing the silent grieving one, Harry Watson stood composing herself, preparing to speak. After a long moment I thought would never end, and everyone's initial shock wore off, she began.

"I... I know I don't know most of you... Why, the first time I met many of the people in this room was today. I suppose that's my fault for not being a bigger part of Johnny's life. I... I don't know if it was me, or just us as a whole, but for the larger part of our lives, we've been estranged from one another. When our parents died in a fire, we should have grown closer together, but Johnny must have been too young, or I must have been too old, so we just... fell apart."

Oh... God. I hung my head in my hands. I felt inexplicably foolish, then. Had I ever once asked John who his parents were, what they did, if they were still alive? Obviously I hadn't. Suddenly Harry Watson presented me with the stark realization that what I knew of John was only what occurred in the time I had... _had _known him. What of his schooling, his childhood, his dreams of the future? Even worse... Did I even know his favorite color?

"Purple," the voice in my head that was the vestiges of John said. "Like your shirt." I scoffed at myself and turned my attention back to Harry Watson. She'd spoken more while I had drifted off miserably, but my dislike of her, as it was now becoming apparent, caused me to care less.

"I told him not to leave. That was the last time I saw him alive. I'll... I'll never forget how sad he looked. He wanted to stay, but he knew he had to go. I asked him why, why was this necessary? He told me there was something here... _here_ he had to protect."

She looked in my direction... No, she looked _at _me. It was then that I realized how utterly alike she and John were. They both had dark eyes, but Harry Watson's hair was more brown, and had grayed significantly more than John's ever had. The face was wide like John's, and the lips were thin. The only real difference was her height. If I stood next to her, our heads would nearly meet perfectly, I thought.

She continued. "I... hope that in time that we all can move on. He wouldn't want us to dwell on him. Johnny was never like that. He always wanted to help people, and never ask for anything in return. That's why he became a doctor, and the good soldier that he was. He wouldn't want to be mourned when he died for _us_." She was crying now, but she looked angry, almost. Angry at John, or...?

She kept looking at me. Why? She barely knew me, didn't know how much John meant to me. "Or maybe he died for that something he told me about. He wouldn't tell me what it was, only that it was important to him. So important... that he died for it." She smiled weakly, but cleared her throat as someone faking one would. She finally looked away from me.

"How very loyal."

With that, she walked away.

Harry Watson lied. She lied through her teeth, I knew it, I saw it in her face. She knew what that something of John's was, and she resented it for taking him from her. I resented whatever it was, too. She had been angry as she spoke, I'd noticed it, but she seemed as if she'd been sworn to secrecy. Probably by John.

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my lip. I wondered for the first time in my life if John could hear any of the things people said about him today. I didn't believe in any divine power, it was foolish to think otherwise. Only foolish people with their foolish problems and their foolish inadequacies believed in deities. John had... but he hadn't been foolish, just... too trusting. Too safe. Too spent.

If John could hear us, I hope he realized how foolish_ he_ was being. Playing dead and all. Because this wasn't real, it was a dream, I'd wake up and...

I felt a nudge at my side. It was Mycroft. He coughed when I looked at him, pointing at the front. Some people were looking at me, and the rest were looking at the minister, going to the stand.

"W-wait!" I cried, standing up abruptly, and rather clumsily. Now all eyes were on me. The minister stopped, groaning. I wanted to tell him to piss off, but I think he got the message, and sat back down.

I smiled meekly at the people watching me, as if I wanted to do this, however it probably looked like a grimace. It fell almost immediately, and I took a breath. _Holding_ it.

I forced my legs to move, but I couldn't expel the air in my mouth as each step took me closer to his coffin. Time seemed to stand still, but I was still moving. Why couldn't I just stop like the rest of them, like John, let me leave like the coward I was? Brilliant Sherlock, just brilliant. You're a bloody genius for agreeing to this, a bloody saint. Or maybe I'm a martyr just like John. Just like John. I was dead like John. Quiet... Watchful.

The stares were unbearable, but the fact that on my way from the back of the small church to the front where I would have to stand, where my love was waiting for me, that I myself would have to stare intently at the casket was the worst punishment of all. Closer and closer... If I hadn't been holding my breath, I would have been hyperventilating.

Finally. Or not finally, since I was barely a foot away from my dead John. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

_'Understatement of the year...'_ I thought.

Standing there, staring at it, I forced myself to turn away slightly, just so I could see the people. I was usually so prepared, so calculated, but I hadn't even begun to plan what to say. I thought it would just come to me. John had taught me to let things come to me when it concerned my feelings.

I cleared my throat, but I swear it sounded like a sob. I felt many eyes look away from me, as if they were saying "poor boy," or "such a pity."

Okay, just let it come to you. Say what you feel. John would want that.

NO! Don't do that again! Don't say what he would want, what he would have thought was best. Just stop whining and open your goddamn mouth, Sherlock Holmes!

"H-hello."

Spot on, man, spot on.

"I'm... I'm Sherlock... Sherlock Holmes. J-John's best friend."

They were silent. What did I expect, that they would say "hi, Sherlock," like I was at an AA meeting?

"I... I don't really... know what to say," I said. More like whispered, really. Was that my voice? Was that really my voice? "I've never... I've never had anyone I cared for die." I shook my head in disbelief. "In fact I've never cared for anyone before John. And... And after John now I care for many people. Many of you in this room are my friends, mostly thanks to John. I've never had friends before him."

I squeezed my hands together, swallowing hard. I continued. "I know some of you might have once considered me... heartless. I thought I was too, and it's only thanks to John that I... feel something right now. E-even a year ago I might have been emotionless at something like this... but I can't do that now, and... I'm very sorry if I've... _disappointed_ any of you." The last words were bitten, aimed directly at Donovan and Anderson, who had been so very kind enough to arrive late... though they both seemed to have more remorse than I would have expected. Just shows you how much I _really _know about people.

"John... John was my... very first friend. I didn't know if I should call him that until he said it himself once. After that, after he told me that, I had to introduce him as my friend every time we met someone new. I was so... very proud of my friend."

God, I sounded like a loony. I could almost hear the people snickering, but in reality I was imagining things. Like a loony.

"Eventually, John became... John became my humanity. I learned through him to see people as actual people, rather than little insignificant specs, organisms ripe for examination. John had looked down on that, and I know now... perhaps for good reason. Perhaps I was far too selfish for my own good... John... he liked to make fun of me because I know little of the solar system, even though figuratively my brain is the size of a watermelon of information. I think maybe... Secretly I didn't like learning about the universe because it obviously didn't revolve around me!"

Surprisingly, this garnered a few laughs. Wait, I was laughing, too? I was making people feel happy on this dark day, even though I felt like I was at the bottom of a well with very _very _smooth walls?

My smile, as fleeting as it was, did in fact fade. I looked away from their faces down to the floor, where my feet stood solitary and defeated trying to hold their owner off the ground. "Thanks to John, I saw that things held more meaning than any numerical or scientific value I could give to it. Things became metaphysical to me, things weren't always set in stone, and... it frightened me."

My voice faltered. Could they even hear what I'd said in the back row?

"But John... Like I was a child, he held my hand and walked me through it all. The process of becoming a human being. That was like him, wanting to help me. I had thought I didn't need any help, that I was above it all. But I was wrong. Everyone needs help... every once in awhile. John, being the doctor and soldier... and fr-friend that he was... saw to those needs of mine."

Saw... Again with the past tense. "I mean, I think I... I... If you just think about it, really, I..." God, no... Please, for the love of mercy please don't cry like a child, Sherlock Holmes. I rubbed my eyes, trying to make sure no tears fell. They didn't, but it felt like they would. I kept my head down, my head obscured behind my shaggy hair. "I'm sorry, I mean, no I'm not, I'm not sorrrrr-sorry..." I kept looking at the casket, and all around me murmurs started. Was he going to faint? Better yet, was he going to throw up? Was he going to weep for John Watson like he should have? What was wrong with him? Couldn't he keep it together.

'_You don't have to keep it together for me, Sherlock...'_

'Yes I do, John... I need to... Not for your sake, but for mine,'

'_Ugh, there you go again, with your selfishness, always me me me! What about me Sherlock? Aren't you speaking for me?'_

I looked up. I hadn't shed a tear, but all the same, the battle in my head was overwhelming. Weren't the things I said enough? It seemed like they wanted more from me, like I had plenty to give. What, did they want me to admit it? That John Watson showed me that it was ACTUALLY POSSIBLE FOR ME TO LOVE?

...Did they?

"I... I..." Steady, Sherlock, steady. I caught eyes with Mycroft, at the far end of the room, and saw him sighing. Defeated... disappointed.

"I love him."

A pathetic and desperate smile, but I wiped it away with my long hand. "I don't know what else to say, except... that I love him."

I couldn't say anymore. This... this _had_ to be a dream. Had I just admitted something only a few people in my life knew? What John hadn't even known?

I walked away, not even having the strength to look back at his coffin. I did have the strength, however, to start sprinting as soon as I came to the middle of the isle. I went out the door and into the snow. I knew exactly where they would bury him, so I waited there. I couldn't be near him right now. I couldn't even breathe.

Coward.

* * *

><p>"I love you," I said.<p>

Of course he would never tell me back. He hadn't for the past several weeks that I'd been coming here... since they buried him.

I told him every day. Like the coward I was. I felt so very ashamed, I felt so much regret that I hadn't told him when he was alive. But was it better this way? If I'd told him just before he died, he would have been so distraught over the prospect of me loving him that he would have died miserably. At least when it happened he had died happy, knowing he was coming home.

Or was that... was that worse? I didn't know. John usually cleared these kinds of things up for me.

"John... that's a bit not good, isn't it? Me thinking you died happily?"

I frowned at his grave marker. So plain, and yet so very John-like. I sat at his feet, staring at the flowers Mrs. Hudson had left. I never left flowers. I didn't think John really liked flowers. But hell, who was I to know? I hardly knew the guy.

I rolled my eyes, rocking myself in the fetal position I was curled in on the ground. My hands were on my knees, and I clenched the fabric there, sighing.

"I'm seeing a therapist now... or at least I'm supposed to. It makes me think of your therapist, and how you didn't need her after you met me. This person Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft are making me see thinks that talking to you like this helps. I don't know if they're right or wrong. I probably would have called their theory asinine and pointless before I met you, if it were some other chap grieving about a loved one. Now I can't say. _They _say you have to experience something before you can make any judgements about it. I feel like _they _were right, sometimes. Me! Saying someone _else_ was right! Isn't that something?"

God, my therapist was wrong. Talking about it to him, or rather to _dead _him, was only making me feel crazy. I seemed to talk too fast for even me to keep up, much like I do when I make a brilliant and charming deduction. Though I wasn't exactly deducing anything.

I stopped talking then, and just stared. Since he was buried, I had done nothing productive, nothing to cope apart from the few therapy sessions. I had never thought therapy was the answer, and for now it hadn't been. But dear God, did I hope some things would change for the better in my life.

I was going through the motions, honestly. That's all I could do. Slowly but surely, the people around me began moving on. Mrs. Hudson was humming again, Lestrade was gradually coming back to see if I wanted any cases (I didn't... not now), I saw Molly in the street wearing lipstick again. Things were going back to normal... And me? Well... I didn't exactly feel the same. I felt like I'd regressed.

This time, this time with John, was the only real time I had to let myself think. When I would get back to the flat, I would sit in my chair and stare at his, waiting for him to re-appear, like magic. I never believed in magic, but I believed now. If I believed, maybe it would be true. He wouldn't be dead, and I wouldn't be alone.

I sighed, and stood. Leaving was the easy part. I said goodbye and walked away, knowing he'd be there tomorrow.

It was the getting there that was the hardest... Getting there when you dreaded having to see him dead again.

I decided to take an alternate route that day. I wanted to go eat something for lunch. Surprising, no? Well I was starving. Probably haven't eaten for weeks, couldn't recall. But John likes me to eat, so I would eat today.

Angelo's sign stared down at me, and I held my breath as I entered the small restaurant. I was given my usual seat, and Angelo seemed happy to see me.

"Sherlooooock! Haven't seen you in a while. How's everything?" he said, setting a menu in front of me.

"Fine," I said. Or I might have mouthed it, because I couldn't really hear anything.

Angelo looked saddened. "Just fine, or...?"

The man had been at John's funeral. So he knew. Pretty much every bloody citizen in the greater London area knew I had been in love with him. Or maybe he just knew how much I was missing him.

I nodded blandly and ordered. It didn't really matter what it was, only that it was food. I asked for tea to go with it.

"Coming right up, then," he said, smiling sadly. A few moments later he was back, with a candle in memoriam.

When he was gone, I rolled my eyes and flicked the thing to the side. The flame flickered and danced, reflecting almost white in today's lighting. The sun streamed through the window and landed on my hands resting on the table. There was a difference in them, I knew it. My fingertips were smoother, especially on my left hand. I hadn't played the violin in a while. There were less spots of chemicals where I'd been fiddling with experiments. Mrs. Hudson actually cooks dinner every night instead. My hands were empty. I'd barely used my Blackberry, as of late. I used to be so connected with the world, used to be so up to speed on things, especially where crime was concerned. Now... Now I let crime pass by me in the street unnoticed.

A few minutes later (it wasn't that busy a day), Angelo came back with my food. I smiled softly in gratitude, and at it without feeling. The man stood there for a few moments, expecting I would say something else, but no. I just ate. He finally understood, and left me alone.

I couldn't help it. My eyes drifted to _his _side of the table, as if I anticipated he'd be there, ready to make conversation. I recalled our first discussion at this table, and how utterly embarrassed John had been.

Of course he hadn't been interested, I could see that now as I remembered. But... Well, maybe... The way he had licked his lips suggested something. I was never good at reading people's advances, only their motives. John's motive had been a sort of getting to know you type thing. But maybe it had been something more...

Stupid. I shook my head, taking another bite of the food, I dunno, pasta or something? It tasted cheesy and fattening, but whatever it was, I'd take it. I sipped the tea more regularly, savoring the flavour. Angelo knew exactly how I liked it, just like John did. It's funny how a simple thing like tea can bring you home.

Home... Just down the street was 221b Baker Street. The room above mine was empty, and would be forever. I couldn't let it out, I just couldn't. Mrs. Hudson couldn't. Eventually though, I thought I might have to, especially if I didn't take any more cases. I groaned, stabbing my fork to the plate. Ah hell, I _would_ have to let the place out. Or at least force the old lady downstairs to. I couldn't go up their and just sulk, rummaging about his clothes and sheets. What was I preserving, his scent? His imprint? That was disgusting and insane. Utterly and completely bonkers.

They'd all fade eventually. I might as well get used to it.

It started raining outside. Great. Just what I needed. Fantastic!

"Sherlock?"

I had been staring out the window for quite some time, watching the cars go by. When it started to rain, I heard his voice. It was Lestrade. I turned to look, and he sighed.

"Hi... I just came to get a quick something to eat before I went to this crime scene. Dimmock's there, but they wanted my advice, but not till later."

I nodded, looking back down to my plate. I took a bite, and realized I'd let the food get cold. Dammit, that meant the tea was cold! As John might say, "fuck my life."

Lestrade was still there. We were mates, so I bade him to sit down. Angelo saw him and quickly took his order. Just a small sandwich from the deli for the Detective Inspector then.

The man rubbed his forehead, leaning on the table. He was sitting in John's spot, but I didn't really mind. "This case... it's bothering me. I keep thinking its one thing, and then the killer goes and does something else!"

I pushed a piece of mushroom to the side of my plate. I was suddenly reminded of a previous conversation with Lestrade. _"What am I supposed to do?"_

"_You could tell him...?"_

"_I've tried that... I just can't do it."_

I looked up. "Serials?" I asked blandly and calmly.

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah... And I've got a kidnapping case on top of _that_. Just my luck, eh?"

I nodded back. "Yes..." My eyes flickered away as I moved my cold plate to the side. A snap decision, plus boredom, plus dissatisfaction equals: "I'll come with you."

Angelo arrived with Lestrade's sandwich, but the DI was so shocked he didn't even glance at it. "You'll what?"

"I said I'll come with you. To the crime scene. If it's not too much trouble."

He shook his silvery head. "No! No trouble at all, its just... why all of a sudden?"

I sighed vehemently. "Because..." I droned. "I'm tired of staying the same."

That was a good enough answer for him, though it wasn't really good enough for me. Just an excuse, really.

When he finished his sandwich, we headed down to the crime scene in the pouring rain, where the taskforce, and DI Dimmock, were waiting.

Both Sally and Anderson were shocked to see me, but Dimmock just rolled his eyes. Probably no one had told him John had died.

"Look, don't contaminate the evidence, alright? I know how you like to do your... your freaky little experiment things, I hear all about them," Dimmock accused.

"Hey! Sherlock is my consultant, so I'll handle him!" Lestrade defended me. How kind.

I rolled my eyes, slapping my gloves onto my hands and cracking my knuckles. Suddenly I was filled with a great burst of adrenaline, and I smiled. Perhaps this was what I should have been doing the whole time, instead of waiting. For what? For my demise from starvation?

I knelt down by the corpse. Didn't really matter what the circumstances were to me, only that I was deducing again. It felt good, to be able to speak my thoughts aloud, solve a riddle, play a game. I laughed at something Lestrade said, very nearly booed Dimmock for being a complete arse, and even insulted Anderson once or twice. Donovan stayed away from me for the most part, however. All in all though, it was really a jolly good time.

"How long has this woman been dead, John?"

For a moment, I waited for an answer. But there should have been some noise, some bustle in the room. It was completely silent.

I looked up from the mass of the woman's bright red hair. Everyone in the room was staring at me, though Dimmock was a bit confused. I looked round and round again, and John wasn't there.

Well... of... of course not! Of course John wouldn't be there. Of course Dimmock was confused.

I stood. "Sorry... Uh..." I very nearly scratched the back of my neck, dazed, but remembered I had just been touching the victim, so I pulled off my gloves. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

I looked to Lestrade, who had just been sharing a look with Dimmock that said "he's dead, mate," and nodded to him. "Well," I began. "I don't see how you could possibly need me. This killer obviously has a thing for redheads from the images you showed me of the previous victims."

Lestrade blinked. "What? But only two of the five victims have had red hair."

I rolled my eyes for the billionth time that day. "Look at the pictures again, or better yet, look at the actual victims and examine their hair follicles. They all had dyed hair that was originally tinted red. You've got a fetish killer on your hands, probably, who does extreme research on his victim's natural hair colors, almost like stats. Hell, maybe he'll start his own 'redheaded league,'" I bit back bitterly.

"_Hey, that'd make a good blog title, don't you think?"_

I sighed, licking my lips and passing Lestrade on my way out. "I saw an ad in the window of Speedy's saying there was a movie filming downtown that was casting redheads as extras. I'd say start there."

With that I left. I should have followed it up, gone with them, but after what happened. I couldn't. I had to go home, sit in my chair, and think.

When I did get home, I barely made it to my chair. I sank into it- soaking it with rainwater and drowning myself in its dampness- and instead slept. I hadn't realized how exhausted I was. From what, I didn't know. Probably insomnia. Probably boredom.

Probably wishful thinking and mind numbing acceptance.

* * *

><p>Three weeks later, I screamed.<p>

"ARGH!"

I heard a loud banging noise from downstairs, and Mrs. Hudson racing up the steps to see what was the matter.

Nothing was really the matter.

"Oh, COME. ON. Give me a break, you think HE'S the killer? Have you ANY SENSE AT ALL, JANE?"

I groaned, slapping my hand to my forehead and sighing. Good God was television predictable.

Since the whole fiasco with me being crazy and speaking to John when he wasn't there, I had stayed mostly in the flat, satiating my thirst for crime and riddles by watching television, mostly crime dramas. The first week it had been that BBC series Luther, but I finished it far too quickly, so the second week I decided to branch out into American television, if only to find a bit more variety. I had started streaming shows, and found _the Mentalist _as one of the choices in my "Recommended for You" cue.

When the villain was introduced as Red _John_ I about died, myself, but I got through it (John was a frightfully common name, after all). It was alright, if anything to bide time.

When I screamed however and startled Mrs. Hudson, I was reprimanded.

"Sherlock! You nearly gave me a heart attack! Do you really want to do that to a poor old woman like me? Hmm?"

I chuckled, clutching the blanket tighter around me and huddling into my chair, looking back to the telly. I had warned Mrs. Hudson to stay away from me for a while, because I was irritable, but she seemed to have had enough.

"Sherlock? Are you listening to me? Oh, good lord you smell awful! And how long has it been since you shaved? Beards do _not _flatter you, dearie. Now John on the other hand, they might have looked good on hi-"

"Mrs. Hudson, spare my your musings, _please_," I begged, leaning my head back and looking up at her, as a son might look up at his mother.

She sighed as she looked at me. We shared something then, something beyond words. She began wringing a dishcloth in her hands. She must have been cleanging. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I just worry about you, is all. Okay?"

Her eyes strayed toward the fireplace... where the old Christmas presents collected dust.

Oh dear... I was forgetting. Dammit, I was forgetting! I told myself I wouldn't forget! Is this how people cope? Throwing their all into something that doesn't matter to deal with stress, feelings, grief? Is that what I was doing with crap telly and not showering?

I used to be so clean, so refined, so perfect that even John must have fallen for me... Okay, perhaps that was stretching it. But still, I would never have sank this low before.

I sighed, too, like she had. After a long moment of sighing and sighing and rubbing my forehead, I got up, shedding my blanket and stepping near to her. I hugged her then, easily, as if I'd been doing it all my life.

She laughed, batting me away and smiling (probably because I smelled, though really, it wasn't that bad).

I couldn't smile back, but I pretended I could by putting my head on top of hers, so she couldn't see my face. So she couldn't see how much she was right.

When I moved away I turned off the television and went straight for the bathroom to take a shower.

It was relaxing... Calm. Like that rain the day I embarrassed Lestrade in front of Dimmock. Perhaps I'd visit the latter Detective Inspector. Just a quick visit, to check up on him... See how he's doing.

I snickered at my own sarcasm. Perhaps I should take the skull more often, from now on. Its better than talking to someone who isn't there.

Isn't there... John wasn't there. John, who I loved, wasn't there. I suddenly remembered how I'd been neglecting visiting his grave. I needed to do that. Tell him I loved him today. Or perhaps three weeks worth of "I love you"s that wouldn't matter. But it helped me.

My therapist was right. When I stopped going to his grave, I retreated into crap telly and insomnia to deal with it. At least talking about it was healthier.

I hummed. Hummed? That was new. I don't think I'd ever hummed in the shower before. Perhaps it was a good thing.

When I got out of the steaming shower and wiped away the fog on the mirror, I nearly choked. Was that me? Good God, was I a wreck. I'd never grown a beard in my life, and while it wasn't exactly long, Mrs. Hudson was right. It _was _unflattering to my face. My hair was longer too, and I sought to rectify that immediately.

As soon as I'd shaved and trimmed my own hair (expertly, of course), I felt so much more refreshed than before. I dressed in my room, in my red shirt this time, and proceeded to enter the living room with a smile on my face.

I looked to the painting on the mantle. It, too, was gathering dust. I took it down gingerly and smiled at it, blowing away the particles and wiping the grime away from the handsome suitor's face. He was radiant and shining, but his eyes were closed. And yet... though she couldn't see his eyes, the dark haired woman seemed happy, _her_ eyes open, and smiling.

I smiled myself, setting it back on the mantle. I shoved the Christmas presents into the very corner and moved a chair to sit in front of them. I don't think I'd ever throw them out, but it was getting a bit out of season to have Santas and snow men decorating the living room.

I looked around the flat to see what progress I'd made. Wonderful! I placed my hands on my hips and sighed, deciding to straighten up the coffee table, fold my blanket, and bring my dishes (miles high they were) to the kitchen. I did them (John would be so proud) and went back to the living room, sitting down in my chair and gazing at my handy work.

Ah! The desk, there was the desk, all cluttered and just awful. I went and decided to straighten it up and look through it.

Mail, mail, magazine, newspaper, more mail, old case files (into the filing cabinet with those), soem more mail... I realized that I'd never done this before. John had always been the one to do this.

As I held a bill in my hands (months old, it seemed), I sat in the desk chair and thought about this.

John... Was this what my life had been like before him? Or was this now what my life would be like after him? Was I the same, or was I a different Sherlock Holmes? Because I had to be, because I still loved John with all my heart.

I wish I could have told him. I almost did too, at Christmas. But he'd died. Now he'd never know.

I realized suddenly that I was glad he wouldn't know. Because I knew, deep down, we never would have been the same. Had he died after I told him, we might have parted on ugly terms, because of course he didn't love me back. How could he? I was a high functioning sociopath who was addicted and rather married to my work. He wouldn't have let himself develop feelings for me, even if he could have. He was too much of a gentleman, and a good friend, to do that. It was have ended with him hating me for ruining our friendship, had I told him. I would have hated me too.

We ended on a good note. We were going to spend Christmas together, as a family, him, Mrs. Hudson and me. It had been very happy, and I had been right before, when I talked to his gravestone. John would have dreamt of that as he died. He wouldn't be filled with regret for not spending time with us. He would have died knowing he was expected, waited for and cared for, not dreaded by people (meaning me) wanting to avoid him. It had been best that I didn't tell him. It had been best that I'd kept my love a secret.

I sighed, relaxing against the back of the chair and looking down at all the mess on the desk. Still so much to go, and I was just getting started. I placed the bill in the bill pile, and dove back in.

After throwing away some junk mail, I stumbled upon a rectangular yellow mailing envelope, the kind with bubble wrap inside. I turned it over, and found that it was the package the two army men had left me with when they told me John had died.

I hadn't ever opened it. I had eventually opened his duffle bag and put all his things away, including his jumpers, his jeans, his striped shirt. I finally had my scarf back, and it smelled just like him (not creepy, just a fact). But I had been wary of this envelope. These are the things that had been on his person when he died. Things that were precious to him, that he wouldn't just leave behind.

Cautiously, I opened the package. What would Mycroft think of me, looking through my dead love's things? Who cared really? Did I care? Should I have just left it alone?

No, I couldn't. John would have... _would have_, yes, really would have wanted me to look, for someone to look. It was one of the few things he left behind that was meaningful to him, whatever was in here. Besides me, of course. At least I _hoped _I was meaningful.

Well, indeed I was. There seemed to only be a few things in there, and one of them was a tattered envelope, probably worn from all the battles he'd been in, addressed to me. It just said "Sherlock," in John's own doctor's scrawl that I'd mastered reading. When I pulled it out, I also pulled out John's dog tags, and put those on my neck underneath my shirt before I began reading the note. What could John have to say to me that he was never able to say to my face?

When I opened it, it was a bit longer than I realized. I smiled at the familiar handwriting, running my fingers over it, and began to read, sitting back comfortably in the chair and imagining John's voice read it to me out loud, like I was a child in grade school being read a fairy tale for the first time. I clutched the envelope to my chest and savoured every word.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I'm writing this to you in case I die. If you're reading this... Oh God, that means I'm dead. What a horrible, horrible thought. If I am dead, I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry. I wanted to tell you some things in case I never saw you again, in case I didn't get to say goodbye. This is my goodbye letter, though I don't think I'll die. If I'm not dead and you're reading this accidentally then... Please please forgive me, please just... Just don't do anything _stupid_, alright?_

_Well... I guess I should start by saying how much I miss you over here. You see I'm writing this letter in Afghanistan right now. In fact I just finished talking to you over webcam earlier, but you had to go on a case. I'm glad you're still taking cases. It's good for you, helps you think. I'm sorry I'm not there to fill in for the skull anymore, but I'm sure you'll cope, haha._

_I like the video chats, but they're terribly unmeaningful. It's hard when there's a time lag, especially with the video. I'm so used to catching all your little quirks that sometimes I mistake one thing you're feeling for another, and I'm usually so good at reading you. It's no wonder people think us a couple, really, the way we know each other like our own hearts... _

_Well... hehe... They're really ignorant folk, aren't they? Sally and them, they're all just trying to get a rise out of you. Bunch of bloody arses they are, but you know I ignore them, like you pretend to. Ya know I see it, don't you? How you don't really ignore them but you really feel hurt and ashamed of the way you are?_

_Sherlock, you don't have to feel ashamed. I think you're utterly brilliant, really. Its not like you can help how you are, and I love it, honestly. I've never met anyone like you before. It's extremely remarkable, and I just wanted to let you know how truly gifted you are. Every time I've ever said you're brilliant or fantastic, or something you did was just so outrageously unbelievable that clapped, I meant it completely, with my whole heart. I wasn't faking anything to make you feel better._

… _Anyway, that's totally irrelevant, but I'm sort of trying to vent my feelings to you. It's scary, this war, and I'm so very afraid that I might not make it out alive this time, since I'm older and constantly not thinking about why I'm here, but why I'm not home. I am the best here, I know it, I'm not being proud, and that's one of the reasons I came back. They needed me, but when I left on that plane, I realized someone else needed me too. And maybe I needed him. _

_I kind of need you Sherlock, at least now. Before, being away from you might have been bearable. But now, now that we know each other so well, now that I can look at you and go "there is no other place I would rather be than next to him," I'm not so sure. In fact, I AM sure that this might have been the wrong decision. _

_But every time I see you now you look so proud of me, and I start feeling jittery inside and want to dance and fight for you. So then I remember that I rejoined the fight because I was afraid the battle might come for you, and this war, this plague is most definitely not something that you could handle. Not like me._

_I told Harry recently that I was leaving because of you. Not because I wanted to leave _you _per say, but because I wanted to leave you safe and secure. You always seem to be protecting me, Sherlock, all the time. Like I'm incapable of doing anything, when that's certainly not true! I'm a crack shot, and I've killed people, remember? I've killed for you, and I'm killing for you every day. Killing as an action isn't something I admire and respect, but I know that if I help in this battle, you may be one step closer to seeing how much I care about you._

_I fear that there's some things in life that I can't control, and this war is one of them, I've come to realize now. I see men dying everywhere, and constantly I see your face in theirs. I'm frightened... am I going insane? Maybe, because every day feels like I get to spend less and less time talking to you over video chat, and more and more time on the battlefield, tending to the wounded masses. The battle is much more grand in scale than you'd ever realize Sherlock, and every day we're reminded that it's not going to be over anytime soon._

_I don't know when I'll be released from this. Christmas will come and go all too soon, and what if I don't make it to Christmas, what then? And what if I'm still alive and Christmas goes, and then I leave all over again? What will that do to me? Oh God, I just... I don't know. I haven't been away from you this long before. I know I hear your voice nearly every day, and if I don't I hear it in my head, condescending and teasing. But it isn't the same. _

_There's this really tall orderly of mine, not Robinson, but another. He's long and thin like you, with dark hair that I have a feeling would look good shaggy and ragged, like yours. He totally looks different in the face, but I swear from the back you two are almost identical. But... he's wearing an army uniform. I get scared and panic, thinking, "Oh, God, Sherlock couldn't cope, so now he's followed me here!"... Until I remember its my orderly. These thoughts give me nightmares, of you bloodied, beaten, worn, like you'd been through hell and back._

_I can't stand this. The only good coming out of this is the men I'm helping. They tell me such wonderful stories about the people they left behind, and I tell them about the man I left behind. I know I left Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, and Harry, and Mycroft, and Lestrade, and even Stamford behind... But they can take care of themselves, easily. I worry about _you_. What do you do when I'm gone? You've become so dependent on me you talk to me even when I'm not there. All. The. Time._

_It doesn't freak me out. I'm more flattered than anything else. In fact I rather like that you always think of me, like I think of you. Silly really, but sometimes _I_ even talk to you when you're not there, though of course I'm more conscious of it than you are. I can't really predict what you'd say to me, since you're so unpredictable. But I memorized the sound of your voice a long time ago, so it's comforting to think about it saying nonsensical things to me over and over again._

_I've been writing this letter over the past few days, using as much time as I can in between the wounded and the battlefield. In between, it _has _given me time to think, about what I really want to say to you, what I would want to tell you if I was there in person._

_When I left you in London, I promised myself I would tell you all of this when I get back, or at least most of it, probably not in incoherent ramblings like this letter is. I just wanted to make sure you heard the whole thing from my lips, or rather my pen, so that you wouldn't feel like I'd cheated you out of a goodbye, or a hello, depending on our situation._

_I want to guarantee you that even if I come home on a stretcher, that everything I've done since the moment I met you has been directly related to, or _for _you. I've never exactly been so passionate about something in my entire life, but you're the one exception in this sadly bleak and and uniform world we live in. Hell, I'm pretty ordinary myself. All my life I've looked for that same ordinary in people. It felt safe, and trusting._

_When you burst onto the scene, everything changed, as cliché as that is. Finally there was something interesting in my life, something worth investigating, worth experiencing for what it was worth rather than taking something at face value. Everyone tells me I've taught you to feel like a human. Well... You've taught _me_ how to _live_ like a superhuman. Like I'm a God._

_You... Oh God, I think I'm turning red. I'm such a teenage girl, really. Harry would laugh at me, but... anyway... You... you make me feel so exuberant, so alive, and so utterly happy that I don't think, honestly- though I know I've had girlfriends and flings and always said they were the one- that I could spend the rest of my life with anyone but you. I've been so scared to tell you, afraid you might not return the feelings, that I've been hiding myself behind those said girlfriends so you wouldn't suspect anything. So I wouldn't die of embarrassment._

_I pray to God if you don't feel the same way that you never read this letter. But somehow I think that's impossible. There's no doubt you'll read this letter, no doubt at all. But if I died, I would want you to know, simply because I couldn't let guilt and regret die with me. Even if I didn't know that you finally knew, I think I'd rest easy, knowing that you, being my complete and utter everything, know the truth._

_To quote my favorite detective, "when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." I've ransacked my brain since the moment I met you, until now, trying to find a reason not to love you, trying to find everything impossible, improbable. I'm straight, you're a sociopath, we're too different, it would never work, you're married to your work, I'm just being completely stupid!_

_None of those reasons are particularly legitimate enough for me. I am straight, but I'm extremely attracted to you, and I've absolutely no idea why. You _were _a sociopath, but I know in my heart that that isn't the truth any more. Opposites totally attract, you know that. We prove that it works every day. I'm a part of your work now, aren't I? Being your fill in skull and all. I'm not stupid. I'm in love. People often mistake the two._

_When I come home to you at Christmas... I... I'm going to ask you to marry me. I don't care if you say no. I don't care if you fight me, I don't care if our relationship is ruined. I need to ask you, even though I know you don't put much store in those kinds of things. I need it for myself, you know? I need to tell you so that I can burn this letter and I never embarrass myself further. I want to spend the absolute complete rest of my life with you, because as far as I'm concerned... you're my soul mate._

_I think... I think if you do read this letter though... you may find something else with it. Molly helped me pick them out, really, told me to have them engraved. It's so very embarrassing, so very very embarrassing, but I hope you'll forgive me. I think when I ask you you'll say yes, though. I don't know why, but I do. I guess its just a sixth sense sort of thing, huh? Only one I feel with you. But really, I KNOW you'll say yes, even if you don't love me back, because its logical. You and I both know that even if we didn't love each other, we'd still spend the rest of our lives together. So why not seal the deal? (Oh, God, I'm a nutcase, hehehe...)_

_But... If I am dead... my last thought was probably about you. Probably. If not, then I was begging God to let me live so that I could see you again. If only for a moment. A brief second in time. I wish, with every last bit of me, that I'll find my way back home to you. If I do... God if I do... I hope if you don't love me back, we can still be friends for God's sakes! Hey, I did make a pass at you once before. Not like you'd have to acknowledge it or anything. I just wanted to tell you._

_I just wanted to tell you how... profoundly you've changed my life, Sherlock Holmes. Before I had been without a home, without a friend to turn to, without anything. You gave me a home, a friend, and more. You became my saving grace. My angel... My angel in the form of a very eccentric consulting detective._

_I love you. _

_-John Watson, M. D._

…...

I... I... I...

I... I? I shook. Uncontrollable... shaking.

I could barely read the words anymore with all the shaking. Gulping, I set the letter away, after I'd read it for the hundredth or so time. Literally.

I hung my head in my hands, stopping the sobbing. Of course this was some sort of game, some sick joke. Either this letter was fake, or John wasn't really dead. It had to be one or the other, couldn't be both.

What... what... what..? No, this isn't... this isn't funny, John. This isn't something you should put in a damned letter! Why... Why couldn't you say it to my face?

He was scared... Scared like I was. Scared to admit to himself, out loud, that he loved me like I loved him. Just like me. He didn't even acknowledge it in the letter, that he wanted to tell me out loud. Too scared to. Too terrified of what I might think. I supposed he had more reason to be scared of me than I did of him. I was utterly terrifying, wasn't I? Especially now, when I was literally falling apart.

There was something... something missing... Something needed in this picture, to add insult to injury. I looked to the table, where I'd dropped the mailing envelope, and picked it up. Greedily, I scratched my way through the paper, tore at it until two shiny objects and fell out and bounced across the table, falling to the ground.

"No!' I whispered, barely able to make a sound. I crawled along the ground until I came to the very immediate living room area, and followed the two objects to where they landed underneath both mine and John's chairs.

Reaching under mine first, I held that object in my left hand. Crawling over to John's, I found the object and clenched it in my right.

Sobbing, weeping, I turned my closed fists face up. Cautiously, cowardly, though I knew exactly what they were and how much I would hate to see them, I opened my palms at once.

Oh... Oh god... No... NO!

In my left hand was a gold ring tailored perfectly for my finger size. It was slender and thinner, and would look perfect on my hand if I put it on. In my right there was a much wider, more masculine ring. It was exactly John's ring size. Both were engraved on the inside with the words "Sherlock & John."

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, please yes, please GOD YES.

I screamed.


	4. Drowning

**Title: **Come Home

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (or rather Leffie)  
><strong><br>Fandom: **Sherlock (TV series)  
><strong><br>Wordcount: **8,840 words  
><strong><br>Rating: **T for teen.  
><strong><br>Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes, DI Lestrade, Anderson, Stamford, Angelo.  
><strong><br>Pairing(s): **Johnlock  
><strong><br>Warning(s): **Too much angst for some to handle, heartbreak, death, sadness, despair, clinically insane... ness.  
><strong><br>Contains: **A kind of cray cray acting Sherlock. Thoughts of suicide, depressive behavior, brb crying...  
><strong><br>Notes: **As promised, I didn't finished this chapter until you'd FINALLY given up hope on reading the end. SUCCESS!

... Obviously I'm kidding, but I am really sorry, as I have been the past few chapters. Once again my Sherlock muse dwindled, in fact I thought I might never write a word of Sherlock fic again, but then A MIRACLE. I suddenly wanted to write. I dunno, it was weird... Anyway, this is the long awaited next chapter, and I hope you enjoy it. I think my writing has grown over time, and I believe this to be the most well written chapter of the fic. If you want to watch my progress of REVISING the fic, just find me on Archive of Our Own, where I'm uploading (slowly) revised chapters as I finish them. Only chapter one is up, but you can at least read that if you want. :3 You know what happens anyway, you lucky ducks over here on FF .net. ;D

Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3  
><strong><br>Summary: **When John is redeployed to Afghanistan, Sherlock can barely cope, especially since his newfound feelings for John have overpowered him. Video chats and phonecalls aren't enough, but when the doorbell rings, Sherlock's world melts down in seconds. Can an unasked question mend him, and can he ever be whole again?

* * *

><p>This morning I woke up feeling greatly refreshed. I know I really needed that sleep, and I was against it from the start, but now I felt a bit more grateful.<p>

I yawned and stretched among the sheets. I'd actually made it to the bed this time, instead of John picking me up off the stairs to the flat (I'd done that before; when you don't have a John around to help you, waking up on stairs is _literally _a real pain in the neck). I scratched my head and licked my lips, staring up at the fan spinning in its cycle. John must have turned it on for me, how thoughtful. I wish I thought of things like that for him...

I sighed, smiling a little. Groggily, I picked myself up and set my feet on the warm hardwood floor. The light was spilling in from the window. It was nice, the feeling, so I closed my eyes and sat there for a moment.

_Flicker..._

My nose was sniffing the air. What a delightful smell! Mrs. Hudson must have cooked again. She wasn't bad, the old bat. She burnt the toast sometimes, but if I'd cooked it would have been charcoal, so I take what I can get.

I stood, mindlessly grabbing my red dressing gown from where it hung on its hook and slipped it on, twisting the door handle.

Quietly I walked from the bedroom to the breakfast table. I do so with silence, because I know he's sitting there, reading the paper. By force of habit, John always rises at six o'clock in the morning, showers, shaves, dresses, and is downstairs before 6:30. Military breeding, of course. He doesn't ever wake me when he crawls out of bed; he's too careful, and I'm always a heavy sleeper (hence my need to stay awake). It makes me smile, seeing him there. When I lived alone I saw no one, and that used to be alright, but then John made having company a staple of my life. I didn't mind.

I just liked to see him for a moment before I walked in behind him. He probably hears me every time, but I still do it. Force of habit.

Before I even reached him I saw the quirk of a smile reach his lips as he brought the toast with jam to his lips. Then, with as much grace as possible at 7:45 in the morning, I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his neck.

_Flicker..._

I felt him lay his own head on mine. "Good morning," I mumbled, smiling a little as I rested my chin on his shoulder. He said the same, and took a bite of his toast. He offered some to me, and I took a bit. Strawberry, his favorite. My favorite too, really, if you count the number of times I've stolen bites of his food in the past six months.

"Sit down and eat your breakfast," he demanded.

My eyes flickered-

_Flicker..._

-to the ceiling, and I thought for a moment. "Hmm, no, I'm perfectly content eating yours." With that I plucked his piece of toast from his hand and ate the rest.

He sighed, but I could tell he he wanted to laugh. I grinned, holding him tighter and pressing my cheek against his. "Come on, you know you love me."

John rolled his head toward me, his forehead colliding with mine. "Aren't you so sure of yourself, Mr. Holmes?"

He blindly, but skillfully took a piece of toast from my plate and placed it on his. My heart fluttered at the gleam of the ring on his finger, and I fiddled with my own with a smile. I chuckled, leaving his side and sitting in my chair, picking up the paper and unfolding it gingerly. "So, Dr. Holmes, any cases in the mail I should attend to?"

He laughed, shaking his head. "No sevens, at least that I can pick out." He grabbed the mail from the stack on top of the file on the Lindon case. I'd told John to file that... I'd just have to do it myself, then.

"Let's see... Missing award winning poodle?" I nearly choked on the piece of toast I'd stolen back from John's plate. "Haha... no, definitely not that one. How about the Little Orphan Annie case?" I shook my head. "Right, you don't do children. There's that one with the Russian nesting dolls I thought looked interesting..."

"Anything on the website?"

"Don't you check your own website?"

"I meant _your _website, John."

He rolled his eyes, and I chuckled with a fluff of the paper. He pulled his laptop closer to him and opened it. "Well! My last blog certainly got a lot of views."

"Is the counter still broken?"

John looked up. "No, I f-f-f-f-f-f-fiiiiiiiiiiiiiixed it, f-f-fiiiixed it."

W-what? I looked up, and he was smiling at me.

_Flicker..._

I tilted my head, and that caused his brows to furrow.

"Something the matter?"

I shook my head. "No... Please, continue."

He looked at me strangely, but resumed checking his blog. "The Sign of Four was the one... People seemed to like that one."

I glared at him over the paper in my hands. "Mary Morstan seemed to take a liking to you, _Dr. Holmes_."

John's eyebrows quirked, and he glanced at me from the corner of his eyes. "Don't be jealous," he said.

"Jealous? I'm not jealous. I'm simply stating facts."

He huffed with a laugh. "Alright, I'm finishing my breakfast, then I'm leaving." He closed the laptop and began to eat again.

_Flicker..._

My heart nearly stopped for some unexplainable reason. "L-leaving?" I said before I could catch myself.

John tilted his head. "Yes, _leaving_, for work!" he chuckled as he took a few more bites and stood up. He picked up the Lindon case file and arranged it in his hands, mumbling something about forgetting to put it away. He leaned forward and tapped my head with the file. "Remember? The world doesn't revolve around Sherlock Holmes."

He looked at me... so sincerely, as if it was the last time we'd ever meet. I leaned back as he came closer. He hooked one arm around my neck and rested it on the back of the chair. I felt the blush before he saw it, but he laughed all the same.

He placed his other hand against my cheek, brushing my stray hairs away with his fingers. I closed my eyes and sank into his palm. John... John was the only tangible thing that comforted me. Everything else was the facts, the work, the data... They couldn't keep me warm at night. "John..."

"Hmm...?" he muttered as he came closer, leaning his forehead against mine.

"I feel..." I began, my eyes fluttering as my hand reached up to touch his. I sounded like I was drowning in something other than water, something that made my breath catch and my words pathetic. "I feel like I'm forgetting something..."

John, the stable thing, laughed again. "What are you forgetting?"

"Well that's just it, I don't know!" A foreign set of words from my lips... I opened my eyes and John was ever closer, his mouth nearly brushing my own. My heart flicke-

_Flicker..._

-fluttered as I touched his sandy hair. Hmm... There was more gray than I'd noticed before... Odd, because I noticed everything.

"Sherlock..." he whispered, finally closing the distance between us.

It was muted. I felt the electric spark I often felt when kissing him, but it was as if his lips were far away, in another country. I was merely kissing a screen, fashioned in the shape of my love's lips. My brows furrowed, and I pulled away.

"What's wrong?" He asked with concern. No... still there. Not far away, right here.

"N-nothing, nothing," I said, shaking my head in disbelief. I touched my lips, and feigned a smile. "You have to go to work remember?"

His eyes lit up as he recalled. "Yes, of course... Silly old me!" He stood up straighter, his arms leaving my side. "Has anyone ever told you how good a distraction you are?"

I smirked. "My husband tells me that, yes."

John grinned, chuckling. Then he turned and headed toward the door to fetch his coat. Just at the entrance, however, he stopped short, looking at his hand and staring at the file still lodged in his fingers.

He seemed frozen, but I knew he wasn't. I could see him breathing. I tilted my head, getting up and moving toward his chair, touching the back lightly. "John?"

_Flicker..._

A smile spread across his lips, and he shook his head. "I forgot again. Would you just file this? You know your system better than I do." He turned abruptly and threw the folder at me.

John continued to smile as the papers rained down around us. There were more than had been in the folder, that was certain. They whipped about as if someone had opened the window and a tornado breezed through. I covered my face as they smacked against me, every which way. Briefly I glimpsed the pages, trying to see John through the madness.

His face seemed everywhere, but nowhere at the same time. I stepped through the paper, batting the sheets away until I was closer to the door. "John!" I cried, grabbing one that had flown into my face and crinkling it, ripping it away. I wiped my sweaty bangs from my eyes, looking down at the page. It was a file on military personnel. One man... A doctor in Afghanistan.

DR. JOHN H. WATSON - deceased.

His image... Red... Watson...? Deceased... D-deceased!

No... No...! I shook my head no, throwing the paper to the side and looking up.

The papers finally fluttered to the ground.

_Flicker._

The door was now at the end of a long corridor. He was still standing there, smiling. He seemed... different. His clothes... A uniform. In his hand... a bag. He was bathed in light, and in the distance I heard the whir of an engine. An aeroplane.

The corridor was dark, behind John the only light.

"I'll miss you," he said. I started forward, my dressing gown flapping behind me.

"No... No, John!" I cried. His image laughed as the corridor grew narrow. The doctor... _my _doctor, my love reached his hand, as if to tempt me. I reached my own hand, and I thought if I stretched, I could save him from leaving me.

"John, please don't go! Don't leave me!" Tears, and my voice was muffled again. Suddenly, the wind picked up again, and the papers blew around me once more. I ran to him.

His outstretched hand moved. He saluted me.

"NO! JOHN DON'T!"

_Flicker...!_

I clawed the air. The corridor was tilting up, and I was sliding down into the whirring paper. Or... was that the whirring engine of the plane? Or was it the sound of rapidfire? Or the sound of an explosion? The sound of a thousand people sighing?

...Or was it my scream?

John's lips were drawn in a line as he lowered his hand. He turned.

I forced my legs to move faster, as much as they were beginning to hurt. Had to reach him, had to save him!

"JOHN, I LOVE YOU! PLEASE, COME BACK! COME HOME!"

The heavy voice, drenched in blood. My voice was sobbing out the negative, as if I could cancel out John's positive. He told me he'd come home... He promised me...

He began to walk into the light. I came closer, but the papers were catching me, like Death's hands reaching out and dragging me into a dark oblivion.

I kept shouting his name, but he couldn't hear me. I reached as far as I could, closer, closer.

_Flicker!_

I was there! I could touch the light, bathe in it. It was his light!

He was walking away. I reached once more to touch him, to take him in my arms and never let him go.

_Flicker, Flicker, FLICKER!_

Just the same as I asked him to stay, he left me alone in the dark. He was swallowed by light.

* * *

><p>I do not jolt awake from nightmares. I merely open my eyes from them. They are figments of my pathetic imagination, dreams that repeat even though I banish them from my thoughts. I delete nightmares, but sometimes they reappear on the saddest of occasions.<p>

I opened my eyes.

This time when I woke up there was no light. It was dark, three in the morning it said on the clock on my nightstand.

Unlike previous nightmares, I remembered everything. I don't think I'll ever forget this one. Everything in my power, to the core of my very being tells me to delete it. Everything in my logical mind knows I should delete him.

Delete John Watson. It says that, really. A command. Delete John Watson. Delete John Watson. Delete John Watson.

This morning I didn't get up. Huddled on my bed. I was freezing cold. Wasn't it summer time? John, wasn't it summer... time...

I didn't get up. I stared at the clock as it counted the minutes.

Blinking red. An hour I laid there, still exhausted.

I took a deep breath, unwilling to exhale.

Finally, my eyes flickered shut.

I won't get up.

* * *

><p>Hunger.<p>

Thirst.

Sleep deprivation.

Endless.

The grief is endless, the sorrow is endless. I've brushed with death, but never before have I truly wished it to descend upon me.

Mycroft told me once that caring was not an advantage. Not for our kind, at least. I wish I'd listened to him at the time, but I don't know if I had a choice. The heart, though in reality a vital pulsing organ, is metaphysically connected to emotion, which registers in the brain as being a tangible thing. I had told myself, no, _taught _myself not to be deceived. But I was careless. I wanted no consequences. Now they've only just begun to take hold of me.

The image never fades. I close my eyes to delete, but I continue to find the backups stored away. In the folder I'd been forced to make of the solar system, the 243 ashes, the alkaline metals, the Bach and the Tchaikovsky playlists, the Woman, New Scotland Yard's blueprints, how to make tea, how to bake, how to dress, how to get up in the morning...

I delete all I find. But then the back ups make more backups, as if they want to be sure of their preservation. I can't wake up without seeing it. I expect to open my eyes and it will be real. When it's gone, I can't stop crying endlessly.

I am now incapable of living. Mrs. Hudson calls Mycroft when I collapse on the stairs. Instead of sleep it's sickness, and there's no John to pick me up and say goodnight.

Mycroft doesn't scold me, even though he wants to. I can see it in his eyes when he stares at the ring on my finger. He sets me in my chair, but we don't speak. I'm afraid I might have lost the power to confront him these times, because there's so much I want to say. "I can explain!" "This is wrong!" Dare I say the words, "Help me, brother?" No, because caring is not an advantage.

He speaks. "Goodbye, Sherlock." He leaves. Rinse and repeat.

* * *

><p>I stumbled out of the flat. It was beginning to get cold out again, but I'd forgotten my coat. I never leave without my coat, but I couldn't go back.<p>

I didn't know where I was going, only that I didn't want to be in the flat anymore. I tried chemicals, eyeballs, organizing files, tea, the violin, organizing the files of the files, solving cases on my blog... I'm flabbergasted that I'm still able to deduce. But the flat has been strangling with memories, and now I wanted out of it.

I hailed a cab, because I could barely walk today. Malnourishment, I supposed. John couldn't take care of me, so I didn't eat. Sleepless nights could also be a factor. Nightmares, for the first time. I ought to go see my therapist again.

Maybe that's where I wanted to go, but instead of the office building, I told the cabbie the cemetery. Why? I didn't know. I don't know anything anymore. Lestrade would be shocked, and maybe... disappointed. But he doesn't call on my services anymore. He sent me a text two weeks ago.

_Only when you're ready. - D.I. Lestrade_

Ready? What's that supposed to mean? Surely Lestrade knows I'll never be ready.

The road was trafficked all the way to Soho. My knee bobbed up and down in frustration.

"Patience is a virtue," the cabbie said in front of me when he noticed my agitation.

I leaned my head to look at him with steely eyes. In another time, I might have said "I'm not paying you for counsel." I might have...

Instead, I pulled my knees to my chest and stared out the window. In between my knees the necklace jingled. His ring, as well as the dogtags. Suddenly the metal burned my chest.

"Hey, I recognize ya!" the cabbie started again. "You're Sherlock Holmes, right? My wife loves that blog!"

My eyes narrowed... In the rearview mirror I saw dull gray in the irises. I muttered, "Please... tell me you mean _The Science of Deduction_?"

The cabbie looked up in remembrance. "Nah, wasn't that. Something like... _The Blog of Johnny Watson? _Yeah, brilliant stuff, that! The missus' been saying that there weren't no new posts. Hang up the old deerstalker, eh?"

The cab had been stopped in traffic for a long time. I got out. I didn't even feel like bothering to correct his grammar.

"Hey, what are ya doin?" the cabbie yelled, rolling down the window. "Ya have ta pay me, ya know!" I kept walking. The image was being obstinate, and the cabbie kept yelling.

Suddenly, however, as I walked in between cars and honking horns, the cabbie stopped shouting. I turned around, thinking he'd given up.

There was a stranger there. A woman. Dark wavy hair, mid to late twenties, tanned olive skin. Black dress with dark jacket. Above her was a deep navy umbrella, however it was dry, as there was no rain. Curious...

As she pulled her arm out of the window, obviously parting with change destined for the cabbie's hands, I caught her eyes. Softly, sadly, she smiled.

Anthea.

I turned and walked again.

* * *

><p>I arrived at the cemetery half-past four, according to my watch. Anthea had been smart, as it began raining soon after I saw her. I was soaked, but the rain hadn't reached the graveyard. The clouds were still dark.<p>

I was slow in my strides to his plot. When I got there, I wanted to turn around. But I stayed.

The wind beget a soft breeze. My teeth chattered and I rubbed my arms. There were dead flowers resting against his tombstone. I cleared them away, dumping them on the dead sod next to him.

"_Bit not good, Sherlock."_

Twitch. I rubbed my arms, sighing. "Right, right. Courtesy." I took the flowers again, and hugged them to my chest. "I'll dispose of them later, then."

Somehow there had to be silent approval, somewhere. My mouth hung open, and I sobbed. The tears fell again.

"I... keep seeing your face." My voice raised at the end then died away in a whisper. Whenever I cried real, honest tears this happened; I must alter my acting job in the future. "The one of you," I continued, "at the airport, smiling at me. I can't seem to get rid of you, no matter how I try..." I looked down at my feet. My legs were shaking. "Tell me... Tell me what I'm doing wrong. Is there a medical cure for grief? An... an herbal tea?! I can't-"

Collapsing. I collapsed, because I let the weight of the feelings overtake me. They are impossible to get rid of when you have them. The flowers crackled against my weight above them, but I could hardly hear the petals screaming over the sound of my own sorrows. From my knees I had fallen further. On my side, sobbing, shaking, clutching the flowers to my chest... on his chest.

_Love._ I should have listened to my brain, all my rational thinking. Years and years of building boundaries and walls and protection broken down and disintegrated, like Rome and chemical reactions. Love, this is where you've led me.

No one would believe Sherlock Holmes truly had a heart, and this sickness is the price I paid for it... Some heart _that_ is. Some _nightmares _I traded insomnia for. Some _feelings_ I have that keep me from work. Once it was the only thing I enjoyed, but then I found his company, and how he cared for me. It was unlike anything I'd ever known.

Deleting the past might seem a viable option, but my past self-damn my past self- made sure I could never forget.

I tried to concentrate on something other than the fact that I was six feet above where his ceremonial coffin was, so I found in my line of sight a small bluebird. It hopped about on top of a grave a few yards away. It had a lovely song.

Slowly I rose and crawled past his plot. The flowers were destroyed, but I would clean them up nevertheless. I simply watched the bird hunt for things for its nest, with knees once again curled tightly to my chest.

It found things, yes. Dead grass, twigs... I moved as little as possible so as not to disturb it. It flew back and forth between the ground and tree above us, John and I. While it was in its nest once, I picked up a few dried petals from the bouquet and flung them across the way. Potpourri for it's home, if you will... It took them like I'd deduced. Bluebirds are naturally attracted to red things, and these petals had been of a rose. Probably Harry Watson, or Mrs. Hudson, thinking they were the elegant choice. Was I the only one to know that John loved tiger lilies? '

I imagine I knew a great deal of things about John that no one else knew. No one cares to look at things and actually see them. Things that are staring them in the face elude them, and yet they remember the feelings and the words. Words, they don't matter. Anyone can fabricate a lie, but everyone tells the truth with the _way _they speak, the way they move and sigh... with their eyes...

John loved tiger lilies and the blue mug in the cupboard. He hated football; much preferred rugby, but was always polite with his die-hard friends about it. He typed with two fingers because he hadn't owned a computer until after his service in the army. When he was furious, his voice was calm... so many people mistook it for forgiveness. He was always tired, despite his lack of nightmares...

"Was I the only bloody one in London who didn't know?!"

No one answered. My hands covered my eyes and shielded me from the chirping little bluebird.

"I want to know! How _couldn't _I have known?!"

"_Because you observe, Sherlock... You observe but you do not se_e."

I heard... That was a voice! _His_ voice! No... No there was no one there. No one around me, least of all John. Nobody to hear my speak as if I'm mad except the damn bluebird.

I shook my head and stood, gathering the bouquet quickly.

"Just leave me alone, John," I said as I gazed at the words. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

He had this to say.

_DR. JOHN HAMISH WATSON_

_September 9th 1973 - December 18th 2012_

_Brother, Blogger, Friend_

I left.

* * *

><p>Instead of taking a cab, I spared myself the uncomfortable idiocracy that would consume my eardrums and walked. I supposed I was going home.<p>

It was a long walk from the cemetery to Baker Street. More than once I didn't pay attention and was almost hit by a car. The most observant man in the world_ wasn't_ me at the moment. I saw nothing and everything at the same time. It was excruciating. Love had rendered me useless in processing information. Or perhaps it was the absence...

More and more my mind was in a trance. The bluebird, though gone from my sight, still sang in my inner ear. I saw the date and the name in my mind, and the image that followed me everywhere. I'd cried enough, so many times, that my tears were now invisible. No one could see them, but I knew they were there, tainting my skin with emotion.

The walk was taking longer than I thought, as it began to grow dark with night. Nighttime in London is unclear and smoky. If I squinted my eyes hard enough I could see the stars John so loved. They didn't really matter, because I didn't matter. In real life there was none of that grammar school hogwash they cram down your throats. They tell children they're special and important, when truly nothing anyone ever does makes a difference. Obviously I'd been blind to this, as well; here I was beginning to think heroes existed... The importance of a man is relative to the company he keeps...

He was a hero to me, because he saved me, in more ways than one. Now I regretted that I let him go...

"_Careful Sherlock... You're slipping..."_

The voice lifted me out of my thoughts, and the cracked sidewalk snagged my foot. I fell hard against the pavement and a brick wall, but my foot's condition was more worrisome. I hissed, clutching my leg and sliding down the building. No one was visible at this time in this part of town, but that didn't mean no one was there. So, in lieu of someone being falsely concerned, I hobbled into the alley beside me and sat attending my wound.

Merely twisted, I'd deduced, and when I pulled off my shoe and sock it was as I predicted. The rain had stopped long ago, but the concrete under me was still damp. Unimportant, really, as I'd left my coat at home. Nothing was important anymore.

I folded my legs to my chest after re-applying my footwear. I was so tired, so I stayed there resting. Dark had fallen completely, and I of all people knew the consequences of remaining in a random alleyway. But I could barely breathe. The sorrow was choking me, so I fell asleep.

It might have been hours, or it might have been minutes before I opened my eyes again. It was still so black, and my twisted ankle was throbbing more than ever. It had been a dreamless sleep, thankfully, but the rest was already slowing my movements. I tried to stand, but a multitude of obstacles prevented me from doing so. There was the ankle, my continuous inability to breathe properly, the whirring headache in my brain, the lack of vision, the cold, my thoughts... They dragged me back down and begged me to collapse again, and perhaps never wake up.

Again and again I tried to stand, but it was a useless effort. More love, more pain, more sadness crushed me down to the ground. I wanted to run, wanted to scream, wanted to cope with the blame I felt for letting him go. It was indeed my fault, as I'd calculated multiple possibilities of the outcome of his stay in Afghanistan. None of them ended the proper way, with him coming home happy- and alive. Had he lived, he'd be changed. Had he died any other way, I'd be just as miserable. Secretly, I'd promised I'd protect John with my very life, but I failed.

I shuddered and hugged my arms to my chest. It was not cold enough to make me ill, but it was still chilled. My continuing descent also made me shiver. I couldn't get up, and I couldn't go home. Suddenly I wished Mycroft would find me and take me away from this damp, pitiful spot. Pathetic! Relying on my brother! Had I really sunk this low?

Apparently I was to sink further. I couldn't control the tearless sobbing. It was the moaning and the screaming. Silent screaming. It was the tearing at my hair and my scalp, because I couldn't get the image out of my head. It wouldn't go away, wouldn't go away. My body gave in and sank; sank down to the ground, curled and aching. I wasn't screaming, truly, because I could no longer form sounds. There was just my lips moving, words back and forth, vying for audacity.

John... John... John... John Watson... John... Holmes? Forever... married... The Work. Work, work! Wrong wrong wrong! I'm never, ever bored...

"Stop fighting!" I sobbed. "Stop it! Leave me alone!" It was the head and the heart, fighting each other for dominance. The head begged for work, data and figures. Physically you're fine, Sherlock Holmes. Emotions are bad for the physicality. You mustn't bother with frivolity, lest you decay.

The heart spoke of grief. Chemically you're torn asunder, Sherlock Holmes. Emotions led you to happiness and pain. Love is happiness, ignorance is bliss. But when happiness is gone, love always remains. It remains and eats you alive.

The competitors rendered me motionless, save for my eyes. Wide open and darting, back and forth. Simply staring at the dark.

I heard an ambulance in the distance, though my exceptional hearing pinpointed it miles away. But it sounded so close to me, as if it was running me over. The sound, already adding to the screaming in my head, likely would have cracked my skull open had I not covered my ears.

The dark and the noise... The screaming and the breathing... The siren whirring... In and out... Delete... Delete you... Breathe and delete you...

"_Delete me? Now why would you want to do a thing like that?"_

I closed my eyes.

Like an REM cycle, they darted and rolled with the information crossing in front of

consciousness. There were exactly 156 ways to commit suicide that I'd catalogued in my brain. More existed, of course, but I'd dismissed some as having extremely low possibilities of being successful, and others I'd not yet come across. My lips trembled as I tried to pick one suitable... Moving on from this passed through my brain, but my lack of focus in deduction left me nothing to live for now.

A gun to the head... I tried to laugh at imagining myself pointing John's Browning to my temple, but it came out as another sob. An overdose... No, someone would find me before the drugs took me. Poison would be more likely, but it caused so much pain before it ended. I needed quick and painless... Something painless...

The ambulance was getting closer. I could now judge its speed by the sound of its tires on the pavement. Someone was indeed in trouble tonight. The siren was growing louder...

My eyes opened, and the dark became light. Red light.

I pushed myself off the ground and waited. My limp was pronounced but I ignored its cries. It would be over soon. I slid across the wall, blinking and rubbing my dry red eyes. I breathed. It was closer. Closer, ever closer... Time it perfectly, Sherlock Holmes, or you may survive with just a scratch.

Calculations. Breathing heavily. Pain. Wincing. More blinking from the red, red light. Now the light was gold and blood; headlights and emergency.

Deep breath.

I ran.

I stopped.

Time seemed to halt.

I stumbled back as the ambulance continued past my shaking form. I could barely breathe, let alone believe what I was seeing. I couldn't believe it. I refused to see it.

I groaned. "John... John!"

He smiled at me softly. "Where do you think you're going, Sherlock?"

His voice... so clear in my ear. But this was not real. It was impossible! "N-nowhere," I muttered, eyes cast to the ground. We were still on the sidewalk. I peered around him, thinking I was having a ridiculous out-of-body experience like people wish for when they die. Perhaps I was sprawled out on the pavement, still reliving my final moments and dreaming that this was it, this was the end and John was here with me.

But I wasn't there. I was here, standing in front of him on the sidewalk. I closed my eyes, then reopened them. He was still there. I rubbed the front of my jacket, as if I was trying to impress him. Of course I was a mess... And he was here.

"Mmm..." He was not angry with me, only... he was disappointed, I could tell. I could always tell. His eyes drifted down to my feet. "You're injured-"

"It's just twisted," I swallowed. "I'm fine, really."

He looked at me with disapproval. After a pause, he said, "Let's go home, then? Mrs. Hudson will have left you some food, since I'm not around."

My brows furrowed, and perhaps a tear escaped, finally. "But you're here now."

Another sad smile. He closed his eyes and leaned his head to the sky. "Yeah... I'm here Sherlock. I'm here."

I smiled. I was terrified, but I stepped forward. Forgetting my limp, I stumbled backward instead.

Just then, as he looked back down at me, a male cyclist- out uncharacteristically at night, judging by the state of his shoes as quickly as I could make of them- sped past me, and _through_ him.

John. I looked to see if perhaps he joined the cyclist, but his receding apparatus carried only one passenger. John disappeared. John was no longer there. John...

I looked around me more. Turning, round and round on the sidewalk, covering all areas with my eyes. No, John would never be able to escape that quickly. Why would he want to...?

My hand reached up to hold the necklace on my chest. I looked down the alley and combed my fingers through my hair. "John..."

Just then, a glimmer caught my eye. I looked back to the street, and shook my head. I wanted to turn around and run, and even attempted to do so, but my aching ankle caused me to tumble into the building. A sharp pain dragged across my cheek, and when I touched it there was blood from where the brick struck me.

It was then that Mycroft helped me into the car. When he closed the door my face fell against the glass, smearing the window with red. I distinctly remember him getting in next to me on the other side, but exhaustion overtook me. I fell into another deep and dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>I awoke this time to light. I thought it was the nightmare again, but then I remembered that that had indeed been a dream, and I've never been aware in my dreams that I was dreaming. So I deduced I must be truly awake.<p>

The clock said ten-thirty. I was aghast at the time, considering I never slept more than five hours a night if forced. If not pressured, I had two to three hours sleep at the most. This "waking up at ten-thirty" was unprecedented.

I was not greatly refreshed. I felt like I most likely looked: dead and worn. My eyes roamed the room, as I was unable to move with my body aching as it did.

First my eyes found a tray on my nightstand. It was the tray Mrs. Hudson usually set out for me in the morning, but I was shocked that it was here, in my room. She was not allowed in my room; no one was but John, who was the second thing I saw.

He was staring at me, his arms and legs crossed with a slight smile on his face. When he noticed I saw him he tilted his head. "Morning, sunshine." He nodded toward the meal. "Breakfast?"

I blinked, but he was still there. Another dream, I thought, but as I began to sit up I felt the pain again. My ankle seethed with fury at me for trying to move it from its spot, so I pulled myself up as efficiently as possible before I looked at him again. Still there.

I rubbed my eyes. "J-John... ah!" I hissed as my foot throbbed. It was definitely not twisted; it was a sprain. Someone had bandaged it in the night. Mycroft knew I didn't like to be touched by anyone; I hope he was at least the one to do it, despite his laziness. I groaned, knocking the back of my head against the headboard and rubbing my forehead. "Idiot..."

"That you are," he said. I looked back to him, and he was frowning. "I know what kind of stunt you were trying to pull. Do you want me to have a bloody heart attack, or were you testing your _ability to survive the pavement?!_"

I reached over and picked up the tea that was waiting for me. It was not hot, but it was still warm, which was good enough. I sipped it, but it was ghastly; Mrs. Hudson did _not _know how to fix my tea... Not like John.

My eyes narrowed. "You're already dead," I muttered with exasperation as I continued to sip. Despite its taste, it was liquid, and my throat had been dry.

"That's beside the point, Sherlock," John said, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. "You tried to kill _yourself_."

I raised an eyebrow. "_Your _point?" I touched my cheek, and along it was a patch; I also hoped this was Mycroft's handiwork.

I looked down to my cup and drew my finger around its rim. Suddenly, the bed shifted, and the weight it carried was redistributed. John had joined me, oh how lovely!

He was not there. I reminded myself of this fact. I knew my mind was capable of the greatest things, but this was not something I'd planned for. Though I was clever, I hardly had an imagination like this, and I did not believe in ghosts. But I felt his weight somehow, especially when he touched his own fingers to my cheek. I winced at the pain.

"Sorry..." he muttered shyly. His hair was longer, and swooped to the side. It was blonder, as if it had been sun-dyed from the gray.

I laughed lightly at his sweet face... Yes, it was the first time in months I'd laughed. Possibly. No, I was sure of it. "So you're here... What now?"

He had laughed with me, but now he looked sad again. This was becoming regular with him. "Whatever you want, so long as you don't hurt yourself." John frowned with his eyes. "Please don't hurt yourself..."

I ignored that request and plucked a piece of toast from the meal that was far too large for my tastes; indeed, a single piece of toast is usually all I'll eat when on a case. But I suddenly felt incredibly hungry, so I brought the whole tray with me and set it beside me.

His presence was incredibly calming. He merely sat there as I ate; it was strange, him not eating with me, but I haven't been next to him in over a year and a half, so it was not as strange as it might have been. Since it was obvious I was not meant to die (considering my own highly developed brain created an entity to replace that which I'd lost to keep me alive), I thought I might as well get used to this. I felt... oddly content.

Breathing through my nose I swallowed more tea. My eyes drifted to John and noticed him staring out the window. I lowered the cup and cradled it in my hands, watching him. I gulped, my face heating up a little, and my stomach feeling strangely electrified.

"I-I love you."

It was the first time I'd said it to his face... and he wasn't even truly alive. But... he _was_ moving. He turned to me and pursed his lips. Was this John the same one who loved me back, or had I gone too far?

Apparently not, because he smiled. "I love you, too, Sherlock."

I rotated the ring on my finger, eyes downcast. "You're not surprised?"

"No, of course not. I knew it all along." He tilted his head, smiling. "I saw it, you know."

"You mean observed?"

John laughed abruptly. "Ha! You mean like you observed me? Hardly!" I growled, but he just patted my bad leg in response, but I winced. He retracted that hand and frowned. "Sorry, sorry."

"Don't apologize," I began, rubbing my leg lightly where he patted it. "You are a doctor though; shouldn't you be taking better care of your patient?"

He looked to the ceiling. "I think being dead disqualifies me for the job. You'll have to find someone else."

I frowned at this revelation. He could touch me, but he could no longer be my doctor- the doctor I needed. "There is no one else..." I sighed. "I'll just have to fend for myself then."

"Probably."

Just then, my sensitive ears pricked at a sound coming from outside my bedroom door. I set down my tea cup and steepled my hands under my chin. John rolled his eyes and got up from the bed to sit in the chair. I already missed his presence that was so close to mine.

"Sherlock, dearie?" Mrs. Hudson began as she knocked on the door. "I heard your voice, are you awake or talking in your sleep again?"

I raised my eyebrow incredulously, looking at John and gesturing to the door. "Talking in my sleep?" I mouthed to him, but he simply shrugged. I rolled my own eyes and replied to the old lady. "Yes, I'm awake."

"Are you decent?"

I frowned, and with deadpan, "_Yes_, Mrs. Hudson, I am decent." John snickered beside me and I shot him an accusatory look.

"Good! You have a visitor!"

My eyes widened. I quickly slipped the necklace under my shirt, as only I knew about that. John continued to stare at me. "Who is it?"

But Mrs. Hudson had already opened the door. In stepped her... and Molly Hooper.

In her arms she carried a medium sized stuffed bear and a bouquet of yellow and purple daisies. Dressed a bit classy, a tweed knee-skirt, deep black sweater, dark tights and mary-jane shoes, with muted red lipstick and pinned curled hair. A card stuck out of her bag with half the name "Janice" written in Molly's familiar swirls, and a treble clef dangled from her neck as a small sterling-silver pendant. Her eyes downcast, she began to speak awkwardly. "I-I just wanted to stop by and check on you, if it's not too much trouble... D-Detective Inspector Lestrade told me you broke your ankle, and I, uh..." She looked everywhere but my eyes.

Mrs. Hudson in the meantime noticed the completion of my breakfast and proceeded to take the tray away. "I'll be back in a minute with your aspirin, Sherlock dear," and she was gone.

I rotated the ring again, looking back at Molly absently. I corrected her, "Not broken; sprained, actually. I should make a full recovery in a week's time," I smiled blandly at her. "Going to your niece's recital, aren't you?"

Her eyes widened considerably. "Yes! How did you-?"

"Your attire suggests a formal but not too formal event is about to take place; it's obvious you aren't meeting a man, as you stopped by to see me, the object of your affections. Not bright red lipstick either, so we don't care about impressing me today, but your hair suggests you care about the person you're seeing; ergo, family member. Could just be a friend you haven't seen in a while, but what friend gives a card for reasons other than a birthday? We can dismiss birthday because you lack a properly wrapped or bagged gift. Instead you carry flowers and a stuffed toy; thus we conclude you must be seeing your niece. How do I know niece and not sister? I've known you for years and you've never mentioned one, despite the fact that your favorite hobby seems to be beginning casual conversations with me about everything and nothing... That... and I've read your file. Ah, now how do I know she's playing in a recital? Simple really. If it wasn't by the distinct outline of the card inside the envelope that says 'good job!' (oh really, Molly, you can do better than that), it must be evident by the fact that you do carry flowers in your arms _and _your attire, as what woman your age goes to a family gathering dressed like that, especially in your taxing occupation? How do I know she's not performing in a play and is in a recital? Why it's the treble clef around your neck! It's obvious that she's the sole player, as you're not terribly close to your niece, but close enough to be invited to such a momentous occasion. If she was playing in an orchestra you would not have been invited as typically people with large families, as you come from, do not invite more than parents and a set of grandparents to these functions. I imagine your niece is what, seven? Eight? Judging from the stuffed toy in your arms and the fact that it was clearly the mother that invited you."

Molly stared slack-jaw. Realizing she must say something, she echoed what John might have said had I been dissecting motives for murder (as it was he who glared at me across the room; he did not like me deducing people like that). "E-excellent!" She laughed nervously, but paused. "Except-"

"Was I wrong? I can't be wrong…"

Molly sighed, stepping forward. She presented _me _with the toy. Her hands had previously obscured the heart it held, which read the obligatory words "Get Well Soon."

"My niece has a piano recital today… The flowers are for her," she explained quietly.

I awkwardly took the bear, and John laughed. I glared at him.

"W-what are you staring at?" I heard her say. "Do I have something on my…" Molly looked at her shoulder and her side, to find the embarrassing substance.

I looked up at her. "No, no, I just… thought I heard a fly. They _annoy_ me." This was directed at John, for interrupting my attempt to act normal. Molly was colored with confusion.

"O-oh, okay…"

I fiddled with the bear's ear. Suddenly I no longer wished to lay in this bed. I was absolutely desperate to stick my head in a basin of water and stay there, but as that was very nearly impossible in my current state, I needed the ability to at least distract myself with _something_. I set the bear to the side and sniffed.

"Well, I'll just… er…" she turned and began to walk out the door.

"Molly? Before you go, will you fetch me my violin?"

Turning back to me, she stared as if I'd spoken another language. "You're… trusting me with your violin?"

I blinked. "Well I bloody well can't get it myself," I said plainly.

She, too, blinked in confusion. "A-alright." Numbly, she exited my room, leaving the door open. A few moments later I heard a disturbing racket. I winced. I just knew that she'd knocked over something of relative importance.

John leaned his head to peer out the door, but when he couldn't see he got up and left the room. "John!" I whispered. "John where are you going?! Stay!" I was terrified he might disappear again.

Molly returned the next moment with my instrument, but John was not following her. I held my breath as I took it from her. Absently I said the word thank you, and began to make sure the violin was in tune. Molly tried to leave, but I stopped her as I began to play.

I played Bach, for what else in life is there if not for Johann Sebastian's music? I closed my eyes, and did not stop, even when she sat in John's chair. I wanted to tell her to move, but if John was here, he would highly disapprove of my rudeness… Where was he? I tried to conjure him with my mind, as it was his creator. I lost myself in the music, the one part of my brain that breathed with creativity; there was nothing, despite my pleading. The music grew more frantic and fled Bach's original tempo, and I couldn't control my shaking.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my arm that was not John's. I open my eyes and looked at her. "What do you need, Sherlock?" she asked, both pity and sadness in her eyes.

I stopped playing and lowered the instrument. I did not like her touching me, but I was hesitant to move. "I'm fine."

Thankfully, she removed the touch, but the presence of her concern still lingered. She was not like the faux Samaritans I'd been afraid of when I hurt my ankle.

"I miss him too…" she said. I stared with narrow eyes. "He was so nice to me, and… he made you so happy." Her usually squeaky voice was oddly calm, as if she was actually sure of the things she was saying. She fiddled with the plastic around the bouquet. "If you ever want to talk, you know I'm always available… You know, in that… I mean…"

"I know what you mean," I replied as I looked away. I laid down the violin and turned the ring again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her tilt her head.

"What's that? A ring?"

I looked down, as if I didn't know what she was talking about. I should have put the ring away, too, but it wasn't as if no one knew. Mycroft knew, and so did Mrs. Hudson. I didn't feel like explaining myself though.

"You may go, Molly. Enjoy the recital."

I didn't look at her, but I knew her face was saddened as she walked out. I didn't move until I knew she was out the front door from the sound of her footsteps on the stairs.

When I did move, it was to get up. I tried to be as quiet as possible, but if John saw me now the hopping on one foot might attract his laughter. I clutched the wall as I looked out into the living room, leaning my head against the door frame.

Still, he was not there. Just the emptiness again, the one I've lived with for months. I couldn't help the sigh, couldn't help it when I paused to wipe something dreary from my eyes. I wanted to sink. Into nothingness. Into a world without hope... But then I was already here in the real world, wasn't I? Perfectly fitting, for a man who doesn't deserve true happiness.

I hobbled to the bathroom nearest my bedroom and turned the faucet on full blast, ice cold. I leaned my head and gathered water in my hands, drenching my face. I breathed it in, pretending that I was drowning.

"Bit not good, Sherlock," he finally said.

I didn't raise from the water, because its coolness mixed with my tears and made them indiscernible. My mouth lifted, however, and spoke his name. "John," I said, and John I repeated again. "John..."

He raised me. He took me from the water, made me drop my hands and gasp for breath. The air was bitter and cold. My face dripped. Tears, water... The bandage on my cheek was slipping off, but I didn't care... All that mattered was the fact that John was holding me again. I was slouched against him, resting my head on his shoulder. I breathed again, drowning in his presence.

John wrapped his arms around me. John was not here. He was not real.

No one saw him. Molly hadn't seen him, but he'd been right there, gazing at me lovingly. Nor Mrs. Hudson, nor my brother. Surely Mycroft would have remarked that it was nice to see John alive. He cared that much, at least.

John was not real. John was dead. John was a ghost.

Not a ghost. I didn't believe in ghosts.

But John was mine.

John was mine and he was not real.

I must have been crying, because he whispered in my ear, taking his hand and wiping the tears from my eyes. "I'm here, Sherlock," he said. It was so soft, so inviting.

I smiled.

It somewhat eased the pain.


End file.
